


The Lights in the Shadow

by Nuanta



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragon Age Fusion, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fantasy Violence, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Mage Hubert, Mutual Pining, No Dragon Age Knowledge Required, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Power Imbalance, Slow Burn, Templar Ferdinand, any necessary setting info will be explained in the notes, well hubert considers ferdinand the enemy and ferdie just wants to be friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 46,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25937017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuanta/pseuds/Nuanta
Summary: Knight-Lieutenant Ferdinand von Aegir transfers to Tantervale Circle with the hopes of earning himself a lofty promotion. Instead, a series of encounters with a resentful mage causes him to question everything he's ever stood for.(A story in three acts. Act 2 in progress.)
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 295
Kudos: 220
Collections: Ferdibert Week 2020, The Three Houses AU Bang





	1. Act 1 Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Dragon Age AU is finally here!! 
> 
> I have been thinking about this AU since January, and now I'm finally releasing it into the wild. This will be a story in three acts, with multiple chapters per act. As things currently stand, Act 1 is sitting at nine chapters, and my intention is to post a new chapter every 2 weeks. No clue how long the other acts will be as I am still working on them, but hey, I'm working on them. 
> 
> If you're familiar with the Dragon Age universe, this story will loosely follow the timeline of the end of DA2 and then DAI. You'll also know what to expect when it comes to the mage/Templar dynamic.
> 
> If you're not familiar with the Dragon Age universe, the main thing you need to know is this: magic is considered a sin, and very dangerous. Therefore, anyone born with magic is sent off to live in a Circle, guarded by Templars, where they can practice their magic safely. It is an inherently corrupt system. It will likely make you uncomfortable; that is kind of the point. If you have any other questions, though, I'm always happy to talk about this!
> 
> Title taken from Dragon Age's Chant of Light, Canticle of Benedictions 4:11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this first chapter for the last day of Ferdibert week (Free/AU day)!

The moment he steps into the mages’ quarters of the Tantervale Circle, Ferdinand knows this will be nothing like Ansburg. The landing isn’t open and spacious, for one thing; instead, there are narrow hallways lined with sconces, doors and walls separating everything. Each mage has their own cramped, dingy room, equipped with a bed, desk, chair, and not much else.

“So they don’t get up to any funny business after hours,” Knight-Commander Rhea says, shooting Ferdinand a knowing smile, as if they’re sharing some well-kept secret.

Ferdinand returns it, for lack of a better response, and dimly thinks, _Prison cells_.

The Junior Enchanters’ quarters are on one side of the hall, with the Senior Enchanters’ on the other, along with a door that connects to a new hallway, one that then leads to the library. It’s almost mazelike, this layout. As if whoever designed this place purposely endeavored to make it difficult for the mages to get around.

This can’t be his reward for his tireless efforts back at Ansburg. This transfer being approved was supposed to pave the way for a promotion, to facilitate his rise through the Templar ranks. This—whatever this currently is—was supposed to be an exciting, momentous occasion. Yet all he can focus on are the goosebumps skittering under his skin.

“I thank you for taking the time to personally tour me through my new environment, Knight-Commander,” Ferdinand says, maintaining his polite, charming mask. He may be unable to uphold his usual eagerness, but he can make up for that in spades with professionalism. He will prove himself worthy during his probation and climb another rung on the ladder at last. Of that much he is sure.

“You’re very welcome, Knight-Lieutenant.” This time, the Knight-Commander’s grin is menacing, almost ominous now, if Ferdinand didn’t know any better. “But don’t thank me just yet. I’ve been saving the best for last.”

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle. “Oh?”

Knight-Commander Rhea’s striking green eyes glint in the gloom as they turn back towards the staircase, her perfectly placed ponytail swaying with an ethereal sort of majesty.

“The dungeons, of course.”

Yes, he is far, far away from Ansburg now.

Ferdinand follows Knight-Commander Rhea down the tight stairwell, past the common spaces floor, past the main floor, possibly even further than one level underground, if he’s been counting correctly. The further down they go, the scarcer the lighting becomes.

When they finally arrive at the landing, a Knight-Lieutenant on guard at the door raises his arm over his chest in a rigid salute. Ferdinand salutes back, but the Knight-Commander simply gives a small nod. The guard opens the door, and they step inside.

There are two torches hanging off the walls, one next to them, and one all the way at the end of the hall. The sides of the hall are lined with dark, barred cells.

Knight-Commander Rhea grabs the near one and holds it out, motioning for Ferdinand to walk with her. They make their way down the dungeon hall, the flames flickering, but providing just enough light to see inside the cells. Most of them are empty, save for a makeshift cot.

How silly of him to liken the mage chambers to _this_.

“This,” the Knight-Commander says, “is where we confine any enchanters who disobey our carefully crafted regulations. It is of the utmost importance that we ensure orderly conduct at all times, for the safety of mages and Templars alike.”

A low, husky voice hisses, “Maker forbid the kitchens fall short of their excess bread rolls.”

Ferdinand startles, but Knight-Commander Rhea does not flinch. A shadow stirs from within the farthest left cell as they approach, and then long, sallow, bony fingers are reaching out and grasping at the bars.

In the torchlight, half of the mage’s face is illuminated; the rest is covered in darkness and what Ferdinand deduces is a messy mop of black hair. A pale eye glitters dangerously. Ferdinand thinks the mage is smiling. Baring his teeth.

“You know the rules, Junior Enchanter,” Knight-Commander Rhea says, lifting her chin. Her air of command, of indifference, is evident from every angle. “You of all people should know by now not to take more than that which is given.” Her eyes narrow. “Or perhaps you enjoy the punishment.”

“Maybe I just like to get under your skin,” the man sneers. That eerie eye shifts past the Knight-Commander to Ferdinand and blinks. Then his face relaxes into something much less angry and much more…playful.

“I haven’t seen the likes of you before,” he says with a leer that chills Ferdinand’s bones almost as much as his new Knight-Commander does. “How fortunate for me. Fresh blood.”

Ferdinand’s mouth goes dry.

He considers responding, but he’s not sure what the protocol is here. If this brief exchange has told him anything, he can only assume it is much stricter here than at Ansburg. Would something even as innocuous as talking back result in discipline? All for a bit of extra food?

Knight-Commander Rhea’s voice cuts sharply against the stone and metal. “An additional day here for your troubles, then,” she proclaims. She glances over at Ferdinand with a sad smile. “I regret that one of the first enchanters you speak with is one such as him. You will find that most of our enchanters are perfectly compliant and amiable individuals.” A smirk spreads across her porcelain features. “Speaking of, let’s head to the dining hall. It is time for the evening meal, after all.”

She whirls around to return the torch to its perch in the wall, so that all Ferdinand can see of the cell are those two hands wrapped around the bars. He turns to follow her, but one bent finger catches his eye. A nail rakes against the metal. Ferdinand feels the screeching noise it makes down to his very core.

If he lets out a massive sigh of relief once they’re back in the stairwell behind his Knight-Commander’s back, well, no one has to know.

The dining hall is a grand, spacious room lined with three long tables, one on each side of the room with the third in between, and a fourth table perpendicular to them at the far end. The seats are littered with Templars already, with some standing by in casual conversation. Ferdinand can tell by the insignias they wear that they seem to be divided by rank.

“Most Templars sit here,” Knight-Commander Rhea says, a hand sweeping to the leftmost table. Then to the right, “Knight-Corporals here, and finally Knight-Lieutenants in the middle, so you will get to know your fellows over your meals.” She gestures to the final table at the end of the hall with a supreme grin. “The Knight-Captains are privileged enough to dine with me, of course. Perhaps we shall see you join us there in due time.”

Ferdinand nods, carefully toeing the line of proper enthusiasm—too much, and he will appear unworthy; too little, and his ambition will be found lacking. “That will be a fine day indeed,” he settles for.

Something is off, however, and he has to ask. “Do the mages dine elsewhere, then?”

Knight-Commander Rhea laughs then, so bright, but somehow so dark. Ferdinand doesn’t trust it.

“Oh, no, they dine here, but only after we’ve finished,” she explains with a hearty chuckle. “But never worry. You can take all the time in the world. Do not concern yourself with their needs. I assure you they are quite content to respect our laws.”

“I see,” Ferdinand says. He doesn’t know what else to say. Expressing concern for the mages seems to be a line he can’t afford to cross, not if he wants that promotion. He will have to learn through experience.

It seems he’ll have a lot to adapt to, after all.

“I’ll leave you to it, Knight-Lieutenant,” Knight-Commander Rhea says. “Enjoy a warm meal after a long and arduous day, get to know your comrades, and take this evening to peruse and relax. Your assigned duties shall begin in the morning.”

Ferdinand salutes. “Thank you very much, Knight-Commander.”

He starts to slack from his pose as the Knight-Commander strides forward to the end of the dining hall, but as she does, everyone stops to hold at attention, frozen stiff in salute. Ferdinand rapidly mimics those around him. Knight-Commander Rhea strolls down the aisle between two tables, and any Templars there are quick to make room for her. She walks with an authoritative click of her boots along the floor, her ponytail swishing gracefully from one side to the other as she goes. In this hall, she commands respect, and Ferdinand can’t help but admire the leadership qualities that exude from her, the way everyone in the room appears earnestly devoted to follow her. It’s inspirational, to be sure. Ferdinand hopes he can be that kind of Knight-Captain at least, someday.

Knight-Commander Rhea rounds the table at the end of the hall and positions herself directly behind the middle-most seat, outwardly facing everyone else.

“My fellow Templars,” she begins, her voice echoing throughout the room, off the high ceilings. “Before we sit down to enjoy our meal, I would like to formally introduce the newest member of our establishment. Please give a warm welcome to Knight-Lieutenant Ferdinand von Aegir.”

Ferdinand puffs out his chest with pride at the salutes that come his way. He tries to make eye contact with as many as possible, nodding his thanks, and in short order the Templars turn back to their leader.

“Now,” Knight-Commander Rhea says with a beatific smile, “let us enjoy tonight’s meal in comfortable companionship.” She takes a seat, and everyone’s stances loosen. Knight-Captains file into place on either side of her. Others take their seats at their respective tables.

Ferdinand goes to the middle table, approaching a cluster of other Knight-Lieutenants. “Excuse me, brothers and sisters, may I join you?”

They assent, and so Ferdinand seats himself. There’s a round of greetings, and Ferdinand tries to memorize names with faces as his new companions point out other notable individuals. It doesn’t last too long, however, for they are all impatient to dig into the wonderfully smelling roast beef in front of them.

The tables are lined with platters of meat, potatoes, and other vegetables, and it is divine. Ferdinand permits himself the indulgence of several bites of everything, taking his time to savor each morsel, before he finally puts down his fork and clears his throat with some mead to ask:

“Please, friends, you must tell me the names of our illustrious cooks, so that I may thank them for their efforts.”

The Templars trade glances.

“We don’t know who they are,” one says—Pam, Ferdinand remembers. She sports a very short haircut and a thin scar under her left eye. “They reside in the servants’ quarters, otherwise they spend their time in the kitchen, right? So we don’t see them.”

Ferdinand frowns, completely baffled. “But what about the wait staff? Or the cleaning staff? Surely you see them moving about the Circle.”

“Well, sometimes, sure,” says another Knight-Lieutenant named Joanne. Her hair is blonde and tied in a tight bun, and she sits close enough to Pam for their sides to touch. “But the entire point of their work is to make themselves scarce. They’ll answer to you if you need something, but otherwise, they’re supposed to stay out of the way.”

Ferdinand persists. “If I wished to give my compliments to the chef, must I hunt down one of the serving staff to pass on the message, then?”

Pam shrugs. “Sure, you could do that. You’ll find one eventually. But they won’t really care.”

None of this makes any sense. Surely the chef would love to receive praise, to know their work is appreciated! “But why ever not?” he presses.

Pam and Joanne make eye contact, briefly.

“Well, they’re Tranquil,” says Joanne.

Oh.

“…all of them?” Ferdinand asks, ashamed of how his voice cracks.

Thankfully, neither seems to notice. “Well, yes. It’s cheaper than hiring from the town,” Pam explains.

“And we’ll be sure to add on to their numbers soon enough,” a burly man named Myles jumps in through a mouthful of meat and potatoes.

“Aye,” a few of the Templars at the table chorus, raising their glasses.

Ferdinand watches, utterly bewildered. “Why is that?”

Myles leans in and, voice pitched low, rumbles, “There’s been suspicions of a blood mage running about behind our backs.”

Ferdinand’s nerves feel like they’ve all fizzled into numbness. “Certainly not.”

But Myles nods sagely. “There’s been evidence of unsavory activity from the library. Highly questionable. There’s been an increase in dead rats lying around as well, and it’s not the cats. They’re keeping clear of those spaces.”

Highly unsavory indeed. Just the very prospect of a wayward mage falling victim to the temptation of blood magic sends chills down Ferdinand’s spine. Regret, too, that this unfortunate circumstance couldn’t have been averted. And yet, the Templars here don’t seem too bothered with their failure. Instead, they seem so much more intent on capturing the poor lost soul.

Which is a fair response, no qualms there, as is The Rite of Tranquility. This way, the mage would never fall prey to demonic influence ever again, and would carry out the rest of their life in peace and safety and comfort. It is a just end.

But Ferdinand wishes to prevent those dark seeds from ever sowing, from ever festering within any of the mages under his care. That is a much more noble venture than simply snuffing out blood magic any time it grows.

If a demon has manifested within the judiciously scrutinized walls of Tantervale…

Myles is still speaking. “It’s not confirmed to be the work of a blood mage just yet, as there are other spells that could have caused it, but let’s be frank. It’s blood magic for sure. And as soon as those investigation results are announced, we’ll begin our hunt proper.”

Hunt. And of the cheer from the other Knight-Lieutenants is any indication, they’ll all relish this opportunity.

Wholly unnerved, Ferdinand places his fork back down on his plate, the chunk of beef it’s stabbing looking rather miserable now. He’d been famished after the final day of traveling and a lengthy tour through the premises, but his appetite has gradually whittled away.

He sighs heavily. “I’m afraid my journeys have tired me out,” he says apologetically. “I think I shall retire for the evening, so that I may have my full strength to commence my duties tomorrow morning. It was a pleasure meeting you all.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Pam warns.

Ferdinand blinks. “Why not?”

“Knight-Commander Rhea hasn’t finished yet.”

Ferdinand looks out towards the end table, where the Knight-Commander feasts, taking dainty bites of food and chewing slowly, taking her sweet, luxurious time. Ferdinand spots wine glasses adorning her table. He has always preferred a good red to mead.

“Must we wait for her to finish before we can leave?” he asks incredulously.

“Oh, yes. She’ll be incredibly cross with you if you disrespect her by leaving early without good reason. Joanne ate it for that one time. Mind, it was a perfectly acceptable reason, and the Knight-Commander’s a lady just like us, so she of all people should have—ow!” She recoils from her partner, who had clearly just struck her with a well-placed elbow to the ribs.

“We are _not_ talking about that,” Joanne hisses firmly. She redirects her attention to Ferdinand. “Point is, no matter how good you think your reason is, it probably isn’t. So, best just stay here with the rest of us and enjoy the food and drink.”

“And company,” adds Pam.

The banter flows easily from the others at the table, and Ferdinand listens halfheartedly as he contemplates the day’s events. He wonders what sort of discipline a Templar faces for something so mundane as excusing themselves from dinner. Especially when a mage faces imprisonment for—stealing an extra bread roll. Here, food is aplenty. Do the mages not receive the same nourishment? And how long must they stew in their hunger every day, when Knight-Commander Rhea sits and eats so leisurely, without a care in the world for the wait she’s inflicting on others? Or are they used to dining later, and Ferdinand is merely projecting?

There is also the matter of the suspected blood mage, the abundance of Tranquil here. An establishment with so many can only mean Tantervale Circle has seen some sort of outbreak of demonic activity, of mages who’ve lost control of their ties to the Fade. Is this some sort of systematic issue, that the Templars here have neglected to protect their charges?

If that is the case, it cannot be allowed to go on. Ferdinand will dismantle that system, root out the rotten bits and replace them with fresh soil to thrive. Maybe this is what he’s been sent here for in the first place. To determine what’s insufficient with the current system here, and modify it based on the model of things at Ansburg, and thus secure his promotion.

He will have to introduce himself properly to the mages and actually take the time to chat with them, unlike the simple exchange of nods in the halls as Knight-Commander Rhea had given him his tour. Learn all of their names, their specialties, their interests.

Except for the one in the dungeons. Ferdinand doesn’t know when he’ll be seeing that one next. After all, Knight-Commander Rhea did just extend his punishment by a day, and Ferdinand hadn’t known when it was originally set to end. Maker, that encounter had been nothing short of terrifying. That man behind the bars represented the perfect vision of what Ferdinand imagined in his mind when he thought of a mage turned evil.

He blinks back to life at the sudden cluttering noises around him. Templars are all getting to their feet and saluting, and he hurriedly follows suit as Knight-Commander Rhea walks down the aisle with a slight inclination of her head and a benevolent smile before leaving the dining hall. Once she is gone, the others depart as well.

Ferdinand lingers as the initial rush subsides; he may as well try to catch one of the wait staff as they no doubt come to clean up and resupply for the mages who will soon be supping next. But no new faces enter the dining hall, and then he’s stifling a huge yawn, so he adjourns and tables that plan for another time.

The Templars’ quarters are separated based on rank, and there are many still wandering about, but he recalls enough from earlier to locate his chambers without a hassle, and he closes his bedroom door behind him to end his evening with grateful solitude.

The inside is much more lavish than a mage’s quarters, though it is still rather plain. Ferdinand does not mind. He thinks he may commission a couple of paintings to brighten his walls—wouldn’t that be a delight, a little decoration—but otherwise the room has everything he needs. A dresser for his things, a small closet, two shelving units hammered to the wall, a comfortable bed, and a nightstand.

He is too tired to unpack all of his things tonight; his bones wheeze and plead for a rest after such an arduous day. Ferdinand musters up the energy to sort his clothes, at the very least, leaving his modest collection of books for another time, and concentrates on removing his armor.

Piece by piece, it’s all deposited along the wall in reverse order for him to work his way through when he dresses tomorrow. Once that is done, he shucks off the rest of his clothing until he is down to nothing but his smalls, throws the rest into a pile in a corner for the time being, and snuggles under the blankets.

He’d entertained the notion of grabbing whichever book was on the top of his pile, he’s glad he didn’t try. The instant his head hits the pillow, his eyelids leaden and droop, and he swiftly drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: This chapter has art! Screams cause this chapter has [ART](https://twitter.com/scramblesart/status/1308434528738840576)!!! Thank you Scrambles so much, it made me so happy. <3
> 
> Come scream with me on Twitter! [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


	2. Act 1 Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've committed to a posting schedule for all of Act 1! There will be a new chapter every two weeks. This gives me time to sit down with edits, and also to get more of Act 2 written, and to hopefully avoid another burnout. Thanks so much for the lovely feedback so far!
> 
> Content warnings, mainly for those unfamiliar with Dragon Age and Circles: mages are basically living in one giant abusive situation, and more details of that come through this chapter.

Ferdinand rises at dawn the next morning, the first slivers of light trickling their way through his window, refreshed and rejuvenated and ready for what his new life will bring. He’d been told to report to Knight-Commander Rhea’s office just after breakfast; the dining hall would be closed for some time yet, so Ferdinand throws himself into his morning stretches. He wonders if there are fair riding trails nearby, if he will be allowed admission to the stables and a mount to saddle. Oh, if he can maintain his morning rides while in Tantervale, he will veritably sing for joy. He will have to ask Knight-Commander Rhea when he receives his first assignment.

In the meantime, he dresses in plain wear and heads to the library, noting how there are no mages out and about yet. It makes a sort of sense for there to be a curfew, he supposes, especially if there are no guard duties overnight, but it’s difficult for him to weigh the scales. On one hand, it likely suits the Templars to not have to rotate a night watch; on the other, it is such a shame to be unable to lounge with a captivating book in the solace of the library at odd hours.

It is an interesting layout, Ferdinand thinks, with carefully confined spaces useful in guarding against magic accidentally bursting out of control, but navigating the library still feels like such a maze. Nevertheless, he will not be deterred, and he completes a lap of the library’s grounds, of each row of shelved tomes, each practice space.

He jolts when the breakfast bell chimes, and he hurriedly makes his way to the dining hall.

Breakfast is a much more casual affair than dinner. The Templars are free to come and go as they please within a one-hour window, after which the mages get their turn. There are eggs and ham aplenty this morning, and Ferdinand’s appetite has been replenished by his good night’s rest. He devours his meal, waves to Pam and Joanne as they come in to eat just as he’s leaving, and then returns to his room to don his armor with a spring in his step.

On the way back to his chambers, he passes by the enchanters’ rooms and finds some of them already scattered down the hallways. A gaggle of younger mages—in training to earn their ranks as Junior Enchanters, no doubt—huddle together in deep conversation, and Ferdinand greets them with a wave and a jovial call of, “Good morning!” They look up at that, startled, and nod quickly before bowing their heads and averting their gazes.

Hmm. Not quite as pleasant as Ferdinand was expecting.

He cannot comprehend why. Surely they cannot be fearful of him. He isn’t even wearing his armor!

Then he recognizes their presence as a sign that it is almost time for them to take their breakfast, and that he will be late for his meeting if he does not make haste and change.

Knight-Commander Rhea’s office is located on the uppermost floor of the Circle building, at the end of a long hallway. There are other doors as well: offices for the Knight-Captains, meeting rooms, and possibly some other rooms Ferdinand is not yet aware of. There must be a comprehensive blueprint of each floor mapped out somewhere. Perhaps they’re stored somewhere in the library.

The door is open when he arrives in full uniform, and she sits tall and dignified in a large chaise behind a magnificent oak desk. Her hair is tied in a similar fashion to yesterday, not a single strand out of place. Immaculate.

He’s beckoned in with a graceful sweep of a hand and a welcoming smile that, oddly, doesn’t reach her eyes. Everything about this woman is so strange. She commands respect and admiration, and is clearly the pinnacle of poise for every Templar to mold their values from—but something just isn’t right.

It is perfectly acceptable to run one’s establishment differently. Circles all function under the same Chantry principles, though executed with their divergences. There is nothing wrong with that.

But Ferdinand can’t shake this feeling of insects crawling underneath his skin, like an itch he goes to scratch but finds nothing there to irritate.

Perhaps it is merely the culture shock of such a drastically altered environment after having grown so accustomed to one fashion of doing things. This is a brand-new experience, a chance to expand his horizons! A good Knight-Captain must have vast wells of knowledge to draw from in order to enact their will and keep a Circle a safe and comfortable place for all. A Knight-Commander, even more so. The latter is a lofty goal, to be sure, but the former is the reason he’s here. He will make the most of this.

So Ferdinand strides into Knight-Commander Rhea’s office with his chest puffed out proudly and the broadest grin he can manage, and salutes.

“Good morning, Knight-Commander,” he proclaims. “I am well rested and ready for my first assignment.”

“It pleases me to hear that,” she responds. “At ease.”

Ferdinand lowers his arm but maintains his impeccable posture.

“Very well, your first assignment. It will be a simple one, as you work your way to more difficult tasks. You will first be placed on an alternating guard rotation.”

Not the auspicious start he’d anticipated, but Ferdinand understands her reasoning. “Where shall I be stationed?”

Knight-Commander Rhea supports her elbows on the desk and steeples her long, elegant fingers. “You’ll take a morning rotation in the southern library wing,” she says, “and an afternoon rotation in the dungeons.”

Ferdinand swallows thickly as the memory of that chilling screech of nails raking across metal echoes in his brain. Before his face inadvertently gives anything away, he forces himself to exclaim, “Thank you very much for my orders,” and pulls a salute.

“I’m delighted to hear it. Well then, your shift at the library begins immediately. Off you go, now.”

Ferdinand makes to leave, but remembers his multitude of questions. “Ah, before I go, I was wondering if I could borrow a moment of your time to present a few queries.”

“I’m afraid not,” comes Knight-Commander Rhea’s answer, without missing a beat. So smooth Ferdinand is nodding along before he realizes he’s been rejected. “Please direct any issues to your Knight-Captains. I have much more important matters to attend to, as I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” Ferdinand says, suddenly sheepish, recalling all the rumors he’d heard the night before. That would undoubtedly put a lot on the plates of the leadership here; of course his queries are nothing in comparison. Well then, he will simply have to work the solutions out for himself. “Have a magnificent morning!” he closes with, and departs the office with one final salute.

So he’s a little disappointed. That’s still not going to prevent him from going about his day in the manner of a model Knight-Lieutenant.

He locates Knight-Captain Aimeric, who he was briefly introduced to yesterday as the Knight-Captain responsible for the library guard, with relative ease once he makes it back down to the library.

“Good morning, Knight-Captain,” Ferdinand says with a cheery smile and a formal salute.

He receives a somewhat tired nod in return. Unfortunate if the man did not achieve a good night’s rest, but he figures such things are bound to happen, especially if last night’s allegations are true.

Still, it’s permission enough, and not hostile, so Ferdinand relaxes his stance. “I’m here to report for my first watch in the southern wing. Is there anything I should know before I begin?”

Knight-Captain Aimeric nods and launches into his briefing. Ferdinand listens raptly, soaking in every instruction, no matter how unexpected the words may be. At first, it seems fairly standard. He is shown the layout of the land, the area of the library that he is to cover. He is mildly surprised to learn he must be incredibly vigilant, carry out a constant march around the southern perimeter as part of his watch, and should not hesitate to summon backup the moment a spell indicates the slightest instance of going out of control.

“Magic drawn from the Fade is difficult to temper in all mages, regardless of skill level,” Ferdinand remarks. “Most of them can certainly wrangle it in relatively short notice, with no threat or damage done.”

“That is an extraordinary risk,” Knight-Captain Aimeric counters. “We cannot allow for even one spell to go astray. The damages—”

“With all due respect,” Ferdinand cuts in, wholly cognizant that he’s interrupted and wholly mortified that he is doing so on his _first day_ , no less, but he cannot remain silent here, not for this, not when he _knows_ there is a gross misconception tainting the entire protocol, “instinct and recovery are major assets to any mage, as is performance under duress. You can study from a book all your life, but that does not mean your body will spring to action in a practical setting.”

Ferdinand has had plenty of field experience in subduing mages, not just in Circles, but dangerous apostates terrorizing the lands, fueling their magic off farmers’ livestock and preventing them from making their proper living. He knows the distinction between magic properly manipulated and magic gone wild. There will be no feral mage behind these walls unless a pact with a demon has been made—and if that is the case, there will be other signs than a mere flash of untamed power.

“Allowing the enchanters to work through their problems will only serve to further benefit them and thus the entire establishment,” Ferdinand finishes.

Knight-Captain Aimeric stares at him like he’s gone mad.

“That’s not how we do things around here,” he says firmly. “Enchanters who lose even the barest bit of control at any given point must be stopped and disciplined as required. You will ensure that they are adequately seen to as needed.”

Ferdinand can only nod his fake understanding, salute, and report to his assigned location. He can _ensure that they are adequately seen to as needed_ without resorting to cruel and unjust methods. He won’t necessarily be disobeying his orders. That sliver of leeway lights a spark of hope inside of him that maybe he will be able to make an impact for the better after all.

He settles into the path Knight-Captain Aimeric had shown him and begins his rounds. Not even a lap later, footsteps pile in, and enchanters fill the library.

He can tell which enchanters are seniors, juniors, or trainees based on their robes, which are blessedly the exact same colors as at Ansburg. At least there, they have not differed, and Ferdinand gratefully latches on to that semblance of normalcy.

As they file past him, Ferdinand flashes a friendly smile at each one, attempts to stop them one by one to request their names. The mages look at him like he’s some crazed wolf snarling and snapping at their heels and take anxious steps back.

“Peace, good ser,” one of the senior enchanters says, an older woman. “What have we done to deserve such treatment this morning?”

“Other than simply existing?” Ferdinand asks with a chuckle, and when they only cower further, the horror sinks in. “Oh, no! I do not mean it like—this is just a big misunderstanding. Please, I am only trying to learn your names. I am new here, and I would like to establish a rapport, so that I may be of better assistance as you hone your craft.”

The senior enchanter approaches him warily, blocking his path from her juniors, and Ferdinand, if nothing else, commends her for her protective impulses. He supposes it’s only fair, given the growing likelihood of him setting a precedent. “I assume this means you don’t know how unusual and suspicious your behavior is,” she tells him bluntly, and Ferdinand winces. “That’s not how things are done around here.”

Nevertheless, Ferdinand persists. “Well, there is nothing that says we cannot be on a first name basis with one another. I am not soliciting your lasting friendship—we have only just met—but I do hope I can alleviate your doubts as to my sincerity somehow.”

The senior enchanter considers, and finally nods, her mouth a thin line. “Very well. You first,” she says.

“Of course. I am Knight-Lieutenant Ferdinand von Aegir, but you may call me Ferdinand.”

She cringes at his second statement, but ultimately answers in kind, and Ferdinand’s heart swoops. “I am Nichelle.”

Ferdinand holds out his hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Nichelle.”

She takes it; her grip is wrinkled and steady. “And you, Knight-Lieutenant.” Ferdinand does not miss the use of his title, but maybe he can convince her, over time.

One by one, the other mages introduce themselves. Ferdinand commits their names and faces to memory as best he can, muttering them under his breath as they disperse into various aisles of the library to commence their work. He continues his rounds, mentally pointing out every mage he’s met as he goes. Asks after them aloud, at times, like when he passes a singular junior enchanter and calls out, “What are you studying today, Marvin?” triggering the boy to practically jump with fright—hmm, perhaps he should avoid this tactic for the time being.

Most of the enchanters spend their time reading; some move into the meticulously curated bays to begin their spellcasting practices. Ferdinand recognizes some of the repetitive drills that are typical of any mage’s education, and he sees the care they put into their spells, the utmost focus and concentration.

As he finalizes another lap of the southern wing, he notices Nichelle supervising a trainee, Amber, with eagle eyes. He sees those very eyes widen the same instant he feels a tremor in the air, the lyrium in his blood singing to the channels of magic straying from their intended course—

Nichelle raises her staff, and Ferdinand says, “Please, hold.”

She stares at him in astonishment as Amber stiffens, a bead of sweat dripping down her cheek, and slams the end of her staff into the ground as she regains power over the spell.

The charged atmosphere dissipates. Nichelle still stares, her beady eyes round like coins.

“That was an excellent recovery, Amber,” Ferdinand says earnestly. “You are going to make a fine enchanter someday.”

Then he moves along before they can say another word.

Later, when his shift ends for lunch time—the mages return to their quarters to await their turn there, which settles awkwardly in Ferdinand’s gut—Nichelle corners him.

“Why didn’t you stop it?” she demands.

Ferdinand doesn’t have to ask what she’s referring to. He glances around, checking his surroundings to certify no other Templar is within earshot, then turns his full attention to her.

“It is frankly absurd to expect perfection at all times, and a cruelty to ask mages to cut off any spell they feel might go awry. Why, it is impossible to achieve a level of mastery without struggle!”

Nichelle’s expression pinches. “We struggle plenty already,” she says, and there’s something flashing in her eyes that Ferdinand can’t quite place.

Ferdinand says, as gently as possible, “Amber cannot learn with you always holding her hand.”

Nichelle leans in and hisses, “I will not allow her to face a worse punishment when this is discovered later.”

The threat in her voice is palpable. Ferdinand has never had a mage threaten him before, never dreamed such a thing could occur, that such malice could be directed at him. He wants, bizarrely, to bottle it up and study it. To see how he can soften it to mild sweetness.

For now, he says with all the confidence and sincerity he can muster, “There will be no punishment. I guarantee it.”

“How can you?” she retorts swiftly.

He has no real answer for that, save the long shot of, “Please, trust me.”

A beat, in which it feels like Nichelle is trying to pierce through his very soul with her glare, and then she steps away.

“A word of advice, Knight-Lieutenant,” she says, a tone of heavy finality in her voice. “This doesn’t happen here. Carry on as you intend, and you’ll be eaten alive.”

She couldn’t have picked a better sequence of words. Ferdinand beams broadly. “Quite fortuitous, then, that I have always enjoyed a good challenge.”

Nichelle shakes her head incredulously and stalks away.

He takes his lunch with a set of Knight-Lieutenants who had also been on library patrol that morning, and Ferdinand listens while they brag of their apparent exploits, most of which involve some form of torment at the trainees’ expenses. It is, quite frankly, horrifying, but what is there to say? Ferdinand knows he has not earned his place nor their respect yet. No Templar will be lending him their ear at this point. He has to be smart about this.

That means, he figures, starting with the mages instead, as he’s just done. Nichelle will likely need some time to warm up to the idea that Ferdinand does not plan on snitching to make poor Amber’s punishment worse. She does not immediately trust his word—he knows this, even as he wishes it weren’t so—and so the only way to cement that trust will be through proof of action. He will need to keep this up with every mage he meets.

He smiles to himself. That should be no hardship at all.

Then he remembers his afternoon’s duty. Okay, perhaps a little bit of hardship.

The rules for a watch in the dungeons are uncomplicated, especially since there’s only one prisoner: keep the doors locked from the inside at all times, and make sure the prisoner does not make a single attempt to perform magic or flee; Smite him into unconsciousness if he does and then call for aid. Ferdinand accepts these terms from the guard he swaps out with and settles into the rickety wooden chair just inside the door.

As with yesterday, there’s only the light from the two torches on either side of the room, which only partially illuminates the interior of each cell. Ferdinand wonders how any Templar can be certain a mage in confinement is not up to any funny business, even without a staff, but he supposes their lyrium-heightened abilities can detect any unlawful mischief before they’re fully started.

It’s impossible to make out the mage’s shadow, so far deep into his cell as he is. Ferdinand waffles over whether or not he should walk over to check, but that might give off a false impression. Instead, he calls out, letting his voice resonate against the walls, “Good afternoon, Junior Enchanter. I’m afraid we weren’t introduced yesterday, so I never got your name. Mine is Ferdinand. Knight-Lieutenant Ferdinand von Aegir, at your service.”

A moment passes. Then another. And another.

This is not a cause for concern, Ferdinand resolutely tells himself. The mage simply prefers not to answer, which is. Not ideal. Especially if Ferdinand will be stuck here for hours without a conversation partner. If only it made sense to ask for a book, but, well, that would be grossly unprofessional, especially on guard duty. Perhaps he might be permitted a notebook, in the future? A small, unobtrusive one would do nicely.

At any rate, he only has the mage behind the bars for company, and the mage only has him. Ferdinand might as well try to make it better for the both of them. It will be a while yet before his words are depleted.

“If you do not wish to talk, that is fine. I can keep our dialogue flowing well enough, you see.” He delays there, just in case the mage desires to interject, but when the silence is maintained, Ferdinand continues. “I realize that I am new here, and I confess I have not entirely grasped all the strict rules and regulations, but I must say, between you and me, I was rather shocked to hear you are currently being penalized for the modest infraction of taking an extra bread roll with your dinner? I could not tell much yesterday, but you do look a little frail. I imagine the extra nourishment would do you some good. None of the other mages I have met thus far have appeared to be lacking. Do you perhaps have a medical issue that needs looking at? If so, I could put in a word for you. I’m sure, with the approval of a Knight-Lieutenant, we can arrange for a medic—that is how these sorts of things worked back at Ansburg, after all—Ansburg being my previous Circle assignment, of course. Ansburg is very different from here. Have you been in this Circle all your life, or have you transferred from a previous one?”

On and on he goes, pausing occasionally to grant the junior enchanter the opportunity to jump in, but he never does. Eventually, Ferdinand runs out of questions that aren’t too personal and broaching boundaries he shouldn’t dare cross this early in their association, so he reverts to telling stories of life at Ansburg. He regales the mage with tales of the amazing displays of talent, the mages so studious they passed their Harrowings with flying colors, surprising even their senior enchanters with their skill.

He’s in the middle of the gripping saga of the time a junior enchanter accidentally set a wind spell loose in the middle of dessert in the dining hall, sending pies splattering into the Knight-Captain’s face, when a throaty, disbelieving laugh reverberates loudly against the stone walls and silences him mid-sentence.

“What ailment do you suffer from, to harbor such sick, twisted fantasies in your brain?” the junior enchanter sneers, for it must be a sneer, and Ferdinand can picture it in his head so vividly, a replica of what he’d seen the day before.

“I assure you, I speak nothing but the truth,” he replies, undeterred. “These are all legitimate events that have occurred at Ansburg Circle.”

“Then you are a sheltered fool.” The mage’s tone is positively venomous. “You and all the mages and Chantry filth who reside there. I pity the foolish mages who grow up there and then get transferred to a real establishment. They’ll be eaten alive by demons, if the Templars don’t get to them first.”

“Excuse me!” Ferdinand snaps, affronted, leaping from his chair and grabbing the torch next to him, marching straight for the sound of the mage’s voice. When he casts the light into the cell, he finds the man, sitting in a corner, legs languidly outstretched, a pale green eye reflecting flames back at Ferdinand while the other hides behind a mop of dark bangs. “I must request you take that back. It is insulting that you would assume Templars would take advantage of an unsuspecting mage like that, especially one familiarizing with a new environment. That would be difficult for anyone.”

The mage snarls, baring his teeth. “I don’t assume,” he growls, “I know. There are only two types of Templars in the world. And if you’re not that kind of Templar, then you’re merely the ones that turn a blind eye and pretend that nothing’s wrong.”

When Ferdinand sputters, floundering for a response, the mage grins, triumphant. “You’re nowhere near as noble as you claim, as you seem to think you are. It’s all around you, _Knight-Lieutenant_. And you won’t— _can’t_ —do a damned thing about it.” He spits out Ferdinand’s title like it’s darkspawn refuse.

“You are wrong,” Ferdinand says firmly. No stories will defend him now. It’s genuinely all he can say. Yet he can tell the mage will not believe him.

Just how bad are things, here?

“You are wrong,” he repeats. “I will prove it to you.”

The junior enchanter barks with laughter. It chills Ferdinand all the way down to his very core, just like before.

“I highly doubt it, but it will be so entertaining to see you try.”

Ferdinand rolls his shoulders back and straightens his spine in a show of defiance. “Well, if I am to make this pact with you, I should at least know your name, so that I may think of you each time I demonstrate the fallacy in your logic.”

The mage closes his eye—eyes? Hard to gauge, when the other is covered—and doesn’t answer immediately. Ferdinand assumes it’s a moment of quiet contemplation, and respectfully does not interrupt it. He does not know the full extent of what this junior enchanter is implying about the treatment of mages, but he makes it sound like they are handled like slaves in every conceivable manner of the word. And that cannot possibly be true.

“Hubert.”

Ferdinand blinks, startled from his reverie. “Excuse me?”

The junior enchanter rolls his eyes. “My name, you imbecile. It’s Hubert.”

“Ah,” Ferdinand exclaims, a tiny bubble of joy fizzing in his chest. Unmistakable progress. “Well met, Hubert. You may call me Ferdinand.”

“No thank you.”

Ferdinand sighs heavily, and Hubert cocks an eyebrow at him.

“I am trying to establish an acquaintance with you,” Ferdinand says, embarrassed by the petulance that escapes him.

“And I would love for nothing more than for you to shut your yapping mouth and leave me to my peaceful, prison-mandated rest,” Hubert retorts.

Oh.

So this is to be his first test, then.

Very well. Ferdinand will prove to Hubert that not all Templars are as he describes, and that will start this instant, with his accepted silence. He gives Hubert a slight incline of his head as acknowledgement, then turns on his heel and returns to his chair. He sets the torch back into its hold on the wall and settles into position.

He does not know how much time has passed so far. He has no clue how long it will be until the dinner bell chimes, until he is relieved of his duty by the next Templar on guard rotation.

And that is fine. This will give Ferdinand time to deliberate, to sort through all he’s experienced so far in little over a day’s time, collecting data while simultaneously determining the most feasible methods of proving Hubert wrong.

When his replacement knocks and Ferdinand unlocks the door to let him in, he fights the instinct to bid Hubert farewell. He knows better. He hands the keys over and leaves without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Ferdinand rises to the challenge. Maybe.
> 
> [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


	3. Act 1 Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially didn't realize that in making my posting schedule, I scheduled this chapter smack in the middle of 4 other deadlines, but it's all good, everything's working out, and I'm really excited to share this one given it includes a scene I'd teased on twitter a while back, and some people have asked me more about mage Hubert. So, here's your chance to learn some more!
> 
> Important CW for this chapter: regarding the implied assault tag, there are mentions of implied physical and sexual assault in this chapter, which are met with naivete and disbelief. (There will, however, be growth from that in later chapters.)

The next day, all mages and Templars are assembled in the dining hall at breakfast. The three Knight-Captains direct the Templars to their usual tables—food and cutlery already laid out—to sit, and the mages are left standing in the back. It’s a terrible misuse of space, as the seats at the table are in no way close to capacity, and all they would need to do to allow everyone to fit is simply have the Templars sit on one side of each table and the mages at the other. But by the time Ferdinand has realized this, the room is too crowded to get a Knight-Captain’s attention, and Knight-Commander Rhea stands out of everyone’s reach, behind her spot at the center of the table at the back of the room.

On a whim, Ferdinand searches the throng of junior enchanters that have gathered in a corner. It takes some time, but eventually he finds who he’s looking for: a tall, surly man with a mop of dark hair covering one eye. So Hubert was released from confinement after all. Ferdinand bites back the impulse to call out or to wave. Hubert is deliberately scowling at his shoes, most likely refusing to give anyone his regard. It’s evident it would have been wholly unbecoming of Ferdinand if he’d tried.

When everyone is accounted for, the doors close, and a hush descends upon the hall. Knight-Commander Rhea clears her throat, and the sound bounces off the walls.

“Good morning, everyone,” she says, her voice light yet commanding, carrying authority so well across the room even though it doesn’t seem like she’s raising it at all. “You might be wondering why I have summoned you all here for this important announcement, but it cannot be helped, and I would prefer you hear it all from me. I am holding this meeting to inform you all that our investigation has indeed confirmed the use of blood magic in this establishment.”

Dissonant murmurs and whispers saturate the hall, ranging in tone from triumphant to disgusted to frightened. They vanish the moment Knight-Commander Rhea lifts a hand to bid for their silence.

“The incident took place two days ago,” she continues, “in the library’s eastern wing. Every enchanter who was studying then and there will be interviewed at some point this week, to give them a chance to prove their innocence.”

_Prove their innocence_. There’s an implication there that sits uneasily in Ferdinand’s stomach, that the Knight-Commander might consider every mage guilty of the crime unless demonstrated otherwise. Still, Ferdinand listens carefully as the words ring out across the hall.

“If any of you know anything at all about who might have been involved with this illegal display, I encourage you to let one of the Knights know without delay. Your good word and cooperation will be recorded.”

Ferdinand’s mind whirls with alarming possibilities. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say the Knight-Commander is providing incentive for anyone to snitch. Cultivating good favor with the Templars in order to exert unduly influence against others. That cannot be right. He’s got to be overthinking this, his brain going haywire in such a new and unusual environment. No, this is simply a request for aid, in any way the enchanters can provide it. They should all abhor blood magic just as much as the next person.

Knight-Commander Rhea is still speaking. Ferdinand shakes himself over and refocuses. “If you have any questions, I encourage you to voice them now.”

“What’s going to happen to the blood mage?” someone calls out.

The Knight-Commander smiles beatifically. “The same thing that happens to any maleficar who has strayed off the beaten path,” she says, as if there is no other option this obvious. “Their salvation will come via the Rite of Tranquility, and they will never need to live in fear again.”

That actually sounds like a sensible sentence. For some reason, Ferdinand’s head had been invaded by thoughts of violent beatings. But no—saving a mage’s life is the noble response. He finds himself oddly thankful for that, and then wonders why he’s having such a reaction to a completely standard protocol. This place is certainly bringing out some strange instincts in him.

“Furthermore,” Knight-Commander Rhea adds, “anyone who is found attempting to shelter the blood mage’s identity from our eyes will meet the same fate. Anyone who supports the use of blood magic, even if they have not yet dabbled in it themselves, will most surely be easily tempted to cross that line should a demon come to them in their sleep. For their safety as well as that of everyone here, we must prevent that outcome at all costs.”

Rumblings of assent fill the hall, echoing just as loud as the pounding in Ferdinand’s chest. He hadn’t contemplated the consequences for any other involved mage, but now that Knight-Commander Rhea mentions it, it is a terrifying prospect to behold. So many mages at risk of corruption! He must do his part to help root out the perpetrator as quickly as possible before it spreads like a disease through the Circle.

There are no further questions, so the Knight-Commander dismisses everyone with a charming smile. The Templars all salute; Ferdinand follows suit, then lags behind to let the mages out first. Some Templars don’t seem to care about that at all, pushing their way past, mages stopping in their tracks to let them through. It makes more sense to clear the hall of the mages anyways, so any lingering Templars may take their breakfast now if they so wish. Ferdinand supposes the ones who are so keen to leave were eating during the announcement.

He eats his meal now amidst the shuffling and talking noises in the background, and it’s only as he’s finishing up that he realizes he’d forgotten to look out for Hubert’s reactions to the Knight-Commander’s words.

Ferdinand spots him in the library later that morning while he’s making his rounds. Hubert sits alone, at the back end of an aisle, back to the wall as he reads through a dense tome. Ferdinand was told not to weave in and out of the aisles on his routes unless an issue requires it, but his feet are moving before he can stop himself. He closes in on Hubert, fingers twiddling nonchalantly behind his back, and makes as if to inspect a row of books.

Hubert does not look up from his meticulous readings, nor does he give any indication of having noticed Ferdinand’s presence, even though Ferdinand’s shadow looms over his pages.

Ferdinand observes a book is crooked, and takes his time rearranging the shelf so that everything is in perfect place. As he does, he says, “Good day, Hubert.”

There is no answer.

He continues anyways. “It would seem we have both been assigned to the same area. Quite fortuitous, I say.”

Hubert turns a page.

Ferdinand says, “You seem the discerning type. What do you think of this blood magic business?” and Hubert slaps his book shut. Aha.

When he looks up at Ferdinand, his countenance seems carefully neutral, but Ferdinand sees the flash across his green eyes.

“I think that _someone_ should stop meddling in things beyond his comprehension,” Hubert replies coolly.

Ferdinand has to laugh at that, but he tries to keep his voice down, for privacy’s sake. “In case you have forgotten, I am a Templar. If you think I have never dealt with maleficarum before, you are sorely mistaken.”

“I didn’t realize your flowery pedigree landed you a spot on the investigation committee so soon after arriving into what you have so blatantly admitted to be a culture shock,” Hubert says mildly, but there is no mistaking the scorn in the furrow of his brow.

The book Ferdinand is handling tips precariously along the edge of the shelf as his grip on it goes lax, and he flounders to catch it while Hubert stifles a sneer. “Ah. Well. While I admit I did not know of this investigation committee, I felt it only fitting to do my part.”

“Funny, that. You haven’t spoken to a single other enchanter of this, and here you are, asking one assigned to the _southern_ wing, who happened to be in confinement for the past week and therefore missed all of the action.”

Oh.

Ferdinand opens his mouth to respond, but Hubert interjects, “Let me guess: your pride has been shattered by a mere junior enchanter, and you simply cannot bear the affront. So, in an attempt to model yourself to your peers and your superiors, to prove your mettle, you will rectify this slant by concocting some haphazard tale to that will grant you permission to take your revenge on me, all the while proving to your fellows that you belong here. After all, they will certainly delight in any excuse to punish a mage.”

Ferdinand sputters. “That is absolutely not—”

“Oh, please. I know your ilk.” Hubert’s voice is soft but laced with venom, unsuspecting at the first bite but seeping deeper with each word. “So you’re not the passive, complicit type of Templar after all, regardless of how you tried to mask your true intentions. What’s your method of choice, hm? Look at that ridiculous mane of yours. You must be the type who cares about appearances. Perhaps you like to see your mages battered and bruised, to showcase their inferiority. You crave power. Though that could manifest in other ways, I suppose. Perhaps you like to take charge in the bedroom, take and take and take with a helpless body beneath you. Yes, that would make you feel strong, wouldn’t it? Or you might be driven by spite, in which case you wouldn’t hesitate to make me a Tranquil—”

“ _That’s enough_!”

Ferdinand clamps a shaking hand over his mouth as his spine tingles with dread. He hadn’t meant to shout.

They stare at each other: Ferdinand horrified, and Hubert with a satisfied smirk.

A burly voice calls out, “What is it?” and Hubert’s eyes narrow dangerously as heavy footsteps approach.

Ferdinand jolts into action. “Pick up your book,” he hisses. “Read.” Turning to the hall without waiting to see if Hubert takes heed, he raises his voice and answers, “Nothing to worry about!” He takes three quick strides towards the aisle’s exit, pulls out a book at random, opens it up, and swipes his thumb along the edge of the pages. Winces at the first sting and then slams the book closed again, and is wringing his hand while putting the book away when a Templar rounds the corner and finds him.

“What’s going on here?” the man asks. They’re not of the same rank; Ferdinand hasn’t been introduced to him yet, and he doesn’t recognize the grizzled facial hair. He looks over Ferdinand’s shoulder. “He causing trouble for you, ser?”

“Hmm?” Ferdinand glances that way, and sure enough, Hubert’s nose is buried in his book. “Oh, no, he has been quite absorbed in his tome. He did not even look up when I cut my finger.” He brandishes his thumb, buzzing now from the fresh cut with a trickle of blood pooling at the slit. “But it is no trouble—it was my own mistake, after all. I apologize for my unbecoming racket.”

The Templar grimaces, his nose wrinkling. He’s still looking past Ferdinand. “Ser, we should make him pay for his insolence.”

Ferdinand’s skin crawls. “There is no need whatsoever,” he says, trying to keep his voice light and cheery.

“But he—”

“I said _no_ , Knight-Corporal.”

The Templar snaps into a salute, his expression stiff.

Ferdinand sighs. “I apologize,” he says wearily. “I do not even know your name. I am Ferdinand von Aegir. I transferred here two days ago.”

“Edmund Solomon.”

Ferdinand tries to smile kindly at him. He’s not sure he succeeds. “Thank you for your concern, Edmund. It is much appreciated. But as you can see, there is nothing unruly afoot. You may return to your post.”

“Yes, ser,” Edmund says tersely, before spinning on his heel and marching out of the aisle.

The moment he’s gone, Ferdinand exhales heavily, letting the tension bleed from his shoulders. He turns back to Hubert, who is staring at him incredulously.

“You pulled rank on him.”

Ferdinand runs a hand through his hair and looks down at his boots, sheepish. His cheeks must be so red now with how they’ve heated up. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Why?” It’s a demand.

Ferdinand bristles. “Did you have an alternate suggestion in mind to get him off your back?”

Hubert huffs and returns his attention to his book.

The itching under Ferdinand’s skin persists, and suddenly it feels as if the shelves are closing in, ready to suffocate him.

“Well,” he says finally, “have a good rest of your day, Hubert.”

And he leaves him there without another word.

Foolish, foolish, foolish. Ferdinand paces the southern wing with a pasted smile. There are still some unfamiliar faces, but that can wait a little while longer. The last thing he needs is to cause another accidental commotion. He nods approvingly at Nichelle and Amber as he walks by them. Amber’s grasp of her spell wavers slightly when he does, but she recovers swiftly, and Ferdinand moves on.

There is so much to unpack from Hubert’s words. So many damaging implications of what the Templars here might do to an insubordinate mage. But that makes no sense. They already have those unsettling dungeons—what worse could they possibly do? This isn’t the City Guard, where lashings are deemed appropriate. And past that, for other…urges, Ferdinand’s guide into town had gleefully pointed out the brothel the Templars here were known to frequent. He tries to imagine a Templar being caught conducting an affair here and blanches. Maker’s breath, that sounds like it would be utterly humiliating. Who would want to expose that sort of personal information to the entire establishment? There is no suitable justification for seeking out a mage—especially not an unwilling one, that’s disgusting—within Circle walls with the present alternative.

_Or you might be driven by spite, in which case you wouldn’t hesitate to make me a Tranquil._

That’s—

The Rite of Tranquility is a sacred ritual performed to save the souls of mages gone astray, to keep them safe from corrupted powers. It is not a punishment. Why did Hubert seem to refer to it as such? Why would that be a Templar’s inclination for an act of spite against a perfectly competent mage?

He must have said it to get a rise out of Ferdinand. It’s simply too absurd otherwise. Who would ever think of doling out the Rite of Tranquility so carelessly? It is pure sacrilege.

And that he’d had the gall to accuse Ferdinand of even considering such atrocities was a gross injustice. What right did he have to speak this way?

Confined to the dungeons for taking an extra bread roll at dinner, and an extended sentence for his attitude. Certainly, Ferdinand would never dream of talking back to his betters the way Hubert does, but the fact that all this had warranted a prison stay was admittedly concerning. Ferdinand supposed Hubert was justified in being mistrusting and bitter.

But Ferdinand had proved him wrong, hadn’t he? And what had Hubert granted him in return for his aid?

Absolutely nothing.

On his seventh round, Ferdinand stops in front of Hubert’s lonely aisle and advances.

“You never apologized,” says Ferdinand.

A beat, and then Hubert lifts his head from his book—a study of lyrium’s magic amplification powers this time, just as thick as the previous tome, which lies on the floor next to him—and gives a supremely bored roll of his eyes.

“I have to prostrate myself on my knees before your holy excellence and commiserate that I required your assistance to stay out of trouble, is that it?”

Which is not at all what Ferdinand means, and damn Hubert for twisting his words so hideously—

But no. He will not fall for it. 

“Not at all,” Ferdinand says instead, maintaining his posture with a puffed-out chest to show he is unrattled. “However, I think I have made my intentions clear despite your misguided insults to my character, and I would like for you to take them back.”

“Make me,” says Hubert.

Ferdinand stares.

It is a double-edged sword, masterfully drawn. For Ferdinand cannot demand an apology, cannot exert his command over Hubert to get it if he seeks to convince Hubert that he is not at all what Hubert assumes him to be. But without it, Ferdinand will never know that he’s succeeded in his cause, that he’s earned Hubert’s respect, and he cannot bear the thought.

He barely even knows him. He barely knows anyone in this Circle. Hubert’s opinion of him shouldn’t matter. Neither should Edmund’s, or Nichelle’s, or Amber’s.

Knight-Commander Rhea’s does, though. How else will he merit his promotion?

When Ferdinand still hasn’t produced a forthcoming response, Hubert smirks and returns to his book.

Ferdinand walks away and resumes his rounds.

Hubert’s opinion does matter, is the thing. Ferdinand doesn’t understand the extent of what’s wronged him—or Nichelle, wizened and wary—or Amber, young and afraid. But he wants to understand. He wants to show them that he is a good Templar. That he is worthy of the title of Knight-Captain, and that he takes care of his own. That they will fear nothing while he is near, that they can hone their powers under the safety of his watchful eye.

It’s what he did at Ansburg. Now, he needs to do so here.

He throws himself into socialization for the rest of his shift. He learns the names of all the enchanters he hadn’t yet had a chance to acquaint himself with, inquires after their specialties or preferred branches of magic. It’s awkward at times, as some of the mages seem nervous about answering his questions, so Ferdinand talks about himself. Nothing too lengthy, because he needs to keep making his rounds—and so does his best to keep conversations at a strict five minutes in duration—but little anecdotes of his life before he pledged his life to the Chantry, stories of silly mishaps. Surely it helps to humanize him so that when he reemerges after having concluded another lap, they will have warmed up to engage further.

It doesn’t work completely in the end, but some enchanters do seem quite amiable. He is pleased to see that Nichelle is tolerating him too. Ferdinand discovers that she is next in line for the position of First Enchanter if ever something were to befall the current one, who Ferdinand has not met yet due to his library supervision schedule between the four wings. But even though Nichelle is entertaining his presence when he passes by on his strolls, Ferdinand can tell she is still guarded. He supposes it takes more than just one day to prove that he means no ill will towards her or Amber, and has no intention of reporting yesterday’s near-incident. 

As it turns out, things do progress in his favor. Ferdinand formally meets First Enchanter Broderick for the first time two days later, and they chat for an entire round through the southern wing that Ferdinand insists he accompany him for. Ferdinand only realizes afterwards that this might have been a small breach in authority, but it seems like no harm is done, and in the days that follow, all of the mages in the southern wing seem more relaxed around him.

The only person who hasn’t come around after two weeks of this have gone by is Hubert. After a few days of greetings gone unanswered, Ferdinand decides to give him his space, though he still occasionally pauses before the aisle Hubert is reading in, all alone as usual. Ferdinand inspects from afar, careful not to disturb him, just to get an idea of what he’s studying. He surmises that Hubert must harbor a keen interest in the powers of lyrium, and is also quite well-read on the topic of protection from demons and other important magical temptations and defenses. Ferdinand wonders what domain of magic Hubert specializes in.

He ends up asking Amber, who looks at him like he’s crazy.

“Why would you want to know about _him_?” she squeaks.

Ferdinand raises an eyebrow. “I know all about the rest of you,” he reasons. “Why should I not know about him as well?”

Amber’s eyes dart left and right, as if to ensure the coast is clear, and even when she does speak it’s in a hushed tone.

“Thing is, most of us don’t really know? He uses all kinds of magic. And he hates everyone else here, even the mages, so we never really get to see him practice.”

“He hates everyone?” Ferdinand asks, incredulous. “That seems rather harsh.”

“It’s the truth,” Amber says, nodding her head fervently. “And he’s always getting himself in trouble with the Templars, so none of us really want to take part in that, you know? We don’t want to be punished for what he does.”

“There is no cause for concern there,” Ferdinand assures her with a chuckle. “It is quite apparent that he is capable of doing that all on his own.”

She giggles nervously. “Yeah, we just don’t want whatever tricks he pulls to backfire and hurt us too, so we just stay away.”

Ferdinand frowns. “Has he hurt people in the past?”

Amber’s eyes widen and she hisses, “Please, not so loud!” Ferdinand lifts his hands in peace, and she continues to whisper. “Well, we don’t actually know if this is true or not, cause he never told us, but the word from the Templars is that before he came here, his magic manifested so violently that he murdered his own father.”

It's as if all the air in the room vanishes, leaving Ferdinand’s lungs aching as a stone sinks deep in his belly, and his body gives an involuntary shudder. Murdered his own father… That’s exactly why Circles exist: to help mages get their magic under control and prevent such unfathomable deeds. It explains why Hubert is so antisocial; Ferdinand isn’t sure he would act differently if he were in Hubert’s shoes. It must be awful, to live with that grief, only to have it fester as you are forced to surround yourself with others you might hurt. Hubert must have worked incredibly diligently, all by his lonesome, to get to a place where he could practice comfortably here in the Circle.

He closes his mouth when he realizes it’s been hanging open, quickly swears to Amber that he will repeat nothing, and moves on with his rotation as muddled thoughts wade through the swamp of his mind. Something about this still doesn’t sit quite right with him. It doesn’t explain why Hubert seems to have a penchant for punishment, why he is so abrasive to any Templar who crosses him. They are the very people keeping him safe! The horrible cruelties Hubert accused him of performing on mages those two weeks ago were surely gross exaggerations manifested by his distrusting brain. Ferdinand hasn’t witnessed anything of the sort here, even if he does acknowledge that the regulations are more stringent than anywhere else he’s ever been.

Something isn’t adding up, and when things don’t make sense, Ferdinand wants to _make_ them make sense. In this case, strive to understand Hubert better. Somehow.

If Hubert will let him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Proof.
> 
> [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


	4. Act 1 Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the extra week delay, but we're back on track now with this update! Also, I have updated Chapter 1 with a link to amazing fanart by scrambles! Please go back to check it out, it makes me so happy.
> 
> Quick CW for this chapter: the opening scene describes an attempted assault.

Ferdinand is not thinking about opportunities at all when the window opens for him. Hard to even consider the circumstances fortuitous when he rounds a corner in the library, refreshed and rejuvenated from the shower after a rigorous sparring session with some of his colleagues, and finds another Templar backing Hubert into the wall.

He’s not even on duty right now. He has the afternoon off, and he’d decided to spend it with a good book. So he’d gone to the library and checked the records for books on the initial magic manifestations in mages and happened to locate them in the southern wing. Except it turns out they are in the aisle Hubert is currently studying in, and there’s a Templar looming over him.

The Templar has his arms extended on either side of Hubert’s head, palms pressed against the wall. His back is to Ferdinand, but he can see enough of the grizzled facial hair to—

Edmund Solomon growls, “I’ll take what I want, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me, mage.”

Hubert singes his beard.

Ferdinand watches in horror as Edmund strikes him with a burst of Smite, and Hubert crumples to his knees with a stifled groan.

“Knight-Corporal, stand down!” Ferdinand cries, briskly marching over, and Edmund jerks away, glaring back at Ferdinand.

“Ser, he assaulted me—”

“Did he now?” Ferdinand asks as derisively as he can, and Edmund balks. “Care to explain to me what prompted _your_ assault on _him_?”

Edmund’s face goes through a startling array of colors, from white as a sheet to red with fury. He stammers, “H-he was—insubordinate—”

“This does not sound like a clear and detailed account,” Ferdinand proclaims. “I do not think you are in a position to make such advances when you do not have your wits about you. Whatever this enchanter did, I highly doubt it warranted threats and physical assault.”

“That’s the way we do things here,” Edmund spits.

Ferdinand stares him down, unwilling to give even an inch. “Well, it is not the way _I_ do things, Ser Edmund. And I am ordering you to stand down, and not to lay a hand on him.”

Edmund bristles. “B-But—you’re giving him free reign to assault _me_ now!”

Ferdinand throws him a supremely disbelieving look. “And if he so much as tries, he will be severely punished for it, as you very well know. Move along, Knight-Corporal.”

He looks like he still wants to fight Ferdinand on that, but he clenches his fists and stalks away.

The moment he’s out of sight, Ferdinand deflates with a loud sigh. Then he rushes to crouch by Hubert’s side.

“Hubert! Are you all right?”

Hubert’s face has a sickly pallor to it, more so than his usual. His eyes are closed and he pants through gritted teeth as Ferdinand reaches for him.

“Fine,” he manages. “Don’t touch me,” he snaps, and Ferdinand flinches backwards from where he’d just laid a hand on Hubert’s shoulder. “Leave me be.”

“You are decidedly not fine,” Ferdinand asserts. “I will not leave you until you have regained your strength.”

The effects of a Smite, thankfully, are generally short lived: full body weakness, dizzy spells, and an inability to extract power from the Fade. Logically, they will subside after a few minutes and Hubert will be fine with no lasting harm done.

“Why are you here?” Hubert demands, his head tilted back against the wall as he draws skeletal breaths. “Why did you intervene? He’ll only make it worse later.”

“I happened upon you on pure coincidence, I assure you,” Ferdinand informs him. “And I am glad I did. I was looking for a book to read at leisure, you see. And you should know by now that I would never allow that sort of depravity to take place here.”

“Well, it does,” Hubert says, blinking slowly at him. The confusion must show on Ferdinand’s face, because he clarifies, “Happen. It happens here all the time. This wasn’t even close to the worst of it.” Unsteadily, he pushes himself to his feet, despite Ferdinand’s protests. “And now you’ve gone and made it worse.”

“How in the world did that make things worse? I ordered him to stop.”

“Yes, and now he’s going to write up a report to his betters, ones you don’t get to talk back to, ones who will wholeheartedly support his request to bestow punishment upon me.”

Ferdinand stares as Hubert trembles through his stiff posture, as if he’s trying to put on a front, a brave face.

“He will truly do such a thing?” Ferdinand asks. He hates how small his voice sounds.

Hubert rolls his eyes. “Yes, so thank you very much for your timely intervention.”

Something else comes to Ferdinand’s mind at that. “You tried to set his beard on fire.”

“Yes. Got a problem with that?”

“Not as such, just.” Ferdinand searches for words. “Would actions like that not earn you the classification of a mage unable to keep his powers in check?”

Hubert shrugs. “They wouldn’t be able to if they tried,” he says, calmly, as if it is no big deal at all. “And besides, they enjoy tormenting mages too much to gift them a swift sentence. That’s reserved for when demons are in play.”

“I see.” Ferdinand does not see, but. He is starting to peer through the veil.

“Did you get your book?”

“Hm?”

“Did you get your book,” Hubert repeats. “The one you supposedly came here for.” His voice turns menacing, and his sinister glare has returned. “I want you out of my sight.”

After all that’s transpired here, Ferdinand finds himself in no position to dispute. “Of course,” he says with a respectful incline of his head. There’s an unease bubbling in his gut, and his desire for an interesting read is fading fast. “Be well, Hubert.”

He leaves the library without his book, but with so many more questions.

~o~

Hubert is right, as it turns out. The very next day, Hubert is condemned to a week of confinement in the dungeons after an incriminating report of insubordination and aggressive magic practice goes through one of the Knight-Captains and straight to Knight-Commander Rhea. Ferdinand learns all this through Pam and Joanne, who love to gossip at mealtimes. 

He also learns that Edmund gave no mention of Ferdinand whatsoever in his report. He isn’t entirely sure why, especially given Edmund’s insistence that all other Templars here condone those types of actions. If that were truly the case, Ferdinand would surely be summoned for a meeting on policy, no?

Unless Edmund was embarrassed to have not gotten his way, to have been forced to comply to a higher-ranking officer’s will. That seemed as feasible an explanation as any. And Edmund did seem to be the type to want to hide any humiliation from his betters.

Confident in the security of his hunches, Ferdinand makes a request with Knight-Captain Aimeric and is assigned extra hours on dungeon supervision.

The first shift he takes there, he brings a bread roll as a peace offering.

Hubert stares at the roll in Ferdinand’s outstretched hand as if Ferdinand is presenting him with poison. “What,” he says flatly, “is _that_.”

“It is bread, obviously,” Ferdinand answers with a roll of his eyes. “I seem to recall that is something you had desired strongly enough to warrant yourself your previous punishment. So, I brought you some.”

Hubert huffs. “Your attempts to butter me up won’t work, you know.”

“I am not trying to butter you up,” Ferdinand argues. “I am simply trying to make your time here more comfortable.”

“More comfortable so that I may be more accommodating to you when you finally have your way with me,” Hubert glowers, his features demonstrating a new level of disgust. “What an elaborate ruse. I suppose I must applaud you for at least being cleverer than the other Templars here, the mindless, power-hungry fools that they are. You knew that in disgracing that Knight-Corporal, he would still submit a report that would earn me another trip to the dungeons, and then you weaseled your way into taking a shift here so you could have me all to yourself where no one else could see. Bravo, Knight-Lieutenant.”

“First of all, do not call me that,” Ferdinand starts automatically. He is dimly aware that he is shaking, but his body has gone numb, frozen in place, his thoughts skittering to a halt at the accusation of... “Second—second of all, that is completely untrue. I am trying to help you, and I wish you would see that, and, and I refuse to take part in any sort of atrocity against you.”

Hubert scoffs. “But that is the way of Tantervale, Knight-Lieutenant.”

He ignores the use of his title, those damning words and all they entail; he can’t process them right now, foreign and terrifying and vast as they are. “But that is not _my_ way, Hubert. I will not stoop so low, ever. That is a promise.”

Hubert smiles, then, torchlight reflecting in his uncovered eye—a pure, sinister thing. “Oh, Knight-Lieutenant,” he simpers. “You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Andraste’s feet, will you not call me by my name?”

“You will never earn that right.”

“Maybe you are the one who should be careful about making promises he cannot keep,” Ferdinand retorts.

Hubert chuckles darkly. “I doubt that.”

Ferdinand sighs. This is going absolutely nowhere. “Well,” he says finally, “in the meantime, I will nevertheless leave this bread roll for you. Here.” He bends down and slides his cloth carrying the bun through the bars, taking care to place it such that it doesn’t roll off onto the dirtied stone floor. “I am going to return to my seat now, and I will not return for the rest of my shift unless there is an emergency.”

He does as promised and sits in that uncomfortable chair. He cannot see Hubert clearly now unless he approaches the bars, but the bread roll lingers there, untouched.

Ferdinand retrieves the book he’d brought with him, and is struck by a sudden streak of inspiration. “Say, Hubert,” he calls out. He receives no response, so he forges on. “I brought myself a book to read, but it just occurred to me that I could bring books for you as well. I will be here every day this week, you know, so it would be quite easy to just loan you a text for the duration of my shift.”

Still nothing. Ferdinand figures he may need some time to mull this over, and turns his attention to his book.

He’s only turned a few pages when he senses the first workings of magic from the cell. A simple pull from the Fade, just enough to establish a presence. Ultimately harmless, and Ferdinand knows it, and in that instant, he knows Hubert knows he knows it too.

He has to say something anyway. “No funny business allowed, you know that.”

Hubert’s voice floats over, taunting. “Since when is practice _funny business_? Surely you wouldn’t wish for me to fall behind in my studies, would you?”

“If something were to go awry—”

“Come and stop me then, if you are so afraid.”

“I am not afraid,” Ferdinand says hotly.

“Come and stop me,” Hubert goads.

Ferdinand inhales deeply. It is all just a game, a test designed for Ferdinand to fail. The only intervention is to Smite him, which he is always loath to do for the discomfort it causes mages; he has accepted his duty in the past because the outcome has always outweighed the temporary grievance. But there is no stray magic threatening to fall apart into chaos here, no demonic influence strangling enchanters. And yet, if Ferdinand does nothing, it’s a blatant disregard for the rules.

No issue if no one finds out. Right?

He turns back to his book and flips to the previous page to reorient himself.

The magic flares.

Ferdinand’s head shoots up. It is still completely contained within the cell. There is nothing for Hubert to gain by attacking Ferdinand—he can and will defend himself, and Ferdinand would bet his entire family’s estate that Hubert is too proud to risk everything in this way. Even so, it builds, expands, and Ferdinand can practically feel the tickle of it whispering over his exposed skin, through the cracks in his armor.

He tries to keep reading. He tries so hard. But the air around him buzzes with static and energy, and it sings to the lyrium in his blood, the compulsion to tap into his own power and dominate it. He tamps that instinct down, but a dull ache has taken residence in his head, just a low throb, and it’s enough to utterly ruin his concentration.

So Ferdinand sits rigid in his rickety wooden chair and counts his way through breathing exercises for the rest of his shift as Hubert flaunts his powers through the heavy air around him.

The knock on the door startles him, and the magic abruptly drops. Ferdinand’s lungs rejoice as they absorb the cleaner air, and he calls out a quick, “Be right there!” as he jumps to his feet and steps towards the cell.

He cannot bear to look at Hubert right now, not wanting to see the satisfaction in his face, not wanting Hubert to perceive him either, though that’s probably impossible. He keeps his head down as he descends to retrieve the cloth and bread roll—it would do no good for Hubert to be discovered with items in his cell—and finds only cloth and crumbs.

When had Hubert taken the bun?

In the end, he’s too tired to ponder that further. Hubert took it, though, and that’s a point for Ferdinand. The tiniest victory.

He pockets the cloth and goes to welcome the next guard.

~o~

The experiment persists for a solid week. Ferdinand will leave him food and proceed to suffer Hubert’s tempting torment in his chair for the duration of his watch. When the watch ends, Ferdinand will find the bread gone.

They barely speak to each other. Ferdinand greets him and is lucky if he’s graced with a grunt in return. Past that, Ferdinand doesn’t want to hazard a conversation. Not when Hubert is being…the way he is. He will endure.

Midway through the week, when Ferdinand is collecting his cloth once more, he hears Hubert say, “ _A Treatise on Demonic Influence via Dreams_.”

Ferdinand’s eyes snap up in his shock at that low, grating voice, and he meets Hubert’s, calm and unaffected. “Pardon?”

Hubert’s gaze does not waver. “ _A Treatise on Demonic Influence via Dreams_. From the library.”

His meaning dawns on Ferdinand. “Oh! I will search for it, then.”

Hubert snorts and looks away.

Ferdinand locates the tome in the library and brings it with him the next day. This time, instead of brandishing spells like a weapon with the exact purpose of provoking Ferdinand, Hubert simply casts a small amount of light into his cell and uses it to help him read. At the end of the shift, Hubert snuffs out his light and hands back the book with a rumble of, “Same thing tomorrow,” and the cycle continues.

Ferdinand spends his time reading too, now that he has his focus back, and it almost feels like acceptance, the way they lapse into a companionable silence as they read, as they each fill their minds with newfound knowledge. He looks forward to these shifts in the dungeons more than he’s ever anticipated.

When Hubert’s sentence is up, Ferdinand puts in the request for more shifts anyways. After what he’s seen, after all that Hubert has implied, Ferdinand surmises that this is the best way to ease things for enchanters who are perhaps too harshly punished for their wrongdoings. He can offer them food and books to read to help them pass the time, and maybe this will set an example of how beneficial kindness can be.

He ends up speaking directly to Knight-Commander Rhea in her office this time. She sits, her hair loose today, relaxed yet noble in her cushioned chair, so different from the one in the dungeons.

“I am glad we have the opportunity to chat face to face again,” Knight-Commander Rhea says with a smile. “How have you been adapting to Tantervale Circle life?”

“Fairly well, I should say,” Ferdinand replies. “I am learning a great deal of the kind of Templar I aspire to be.”

“That is wonderful to hear.” Knight-Commander Rhea’s expression shifts into one of curiosity, except it seems…judgmental, as well. Like she’s about to administer a test. “I hear you would like permission to take over the majority of the dungeon shifts. What brings this on?”

Ferdinand takes a moment to formulate proper, honest words. “I like the opportunity to get to know the enchanters on a more personal level,” he settles with.

“I’m sure you do.” Knight-Commander Rhea’s pristine teeth show through in this grin, and Ferdinand feels like prey trapped in the hunt with the way they are bared at him. “Well, we can certainly arrange that. I’m expecting the dungeons will begin seeing an increased capacity very shortly, as we will be holding suspected blood mages there for questioning in the coming days.”

Ah. “The investigation is coming along, then?” Ferdinand asks carefully.

Knight-Commander Rhea’s eyes gleam triumphantly as she assents. “We kept it under wraps, but there was another incident a few days ago, this time in the northern wing. Whatever this maleficar is attempting, they are leaving noticeable traces behind. It won’t be long before we’ve caught up to them. For now, a warning, and a little bait. You understand.”

Ferdinand nods, even if he doesn’t quite understand what she means by bait. Maybe it’s all right, for now, if he doesn’t. At some point, he has to trust that he will, in time. Just like with Hubert.

“Excellent,” Knight-Commander Rhea says, and something in the air clears. Whatever it was, it appears Ferdinand has passed her trial, and he is grateful for it. Also relieved. “Thank you for your time, Knight-Lieutenant. You are dismissed.”

A respectful salute, and Ferdinand goes, wondering what will await him on his next guard duties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: The blood mage interrogations begin in earnest.
> 
> [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


	5. Act 1 Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been practically vibrating out of my seat looking forward to posting this latest development, so here we are! Dedicating this one to Goop and Unrivaled, my favorite sludges.
> 
> CW for this chapter: aftermath of a physical/mental assault, heavily implied past sexual assault. No graphic details. If any of this worries you, more info is in the end notes.

Ferdinand is assigned guard duty every day for the next two weeks. For the first time ever, he experiences the cells nearly at capacity, one enchanter in each save one at the end of the hall. Ferdinand is instructed to use any means necessary to keep the mages silent.

He is also informed that a specific patterned knock on the door will signify the arrival of a Knight-Captain to pick out an enchanter for questioning. That mage will be sent to a separate room, where they will complete a solo interrogation before being returned to the dungeons. Once a full series has been administered, if deemed innocent, that group of mages will be permitted to go free.

When the first cohort is brought in, Ferdinand waits until they’re all in their individual cells and he’s locked the door behind him. Then he addresses his charges.

“If there is anything I can bring you from the library or the dining hall when I come for my next shift, please let me know. I admit I’ve come empty-handed today because I did not know how many of you would be sent here, and I did not want to accidentally leave anyone out.”

He receives only perplexed glances.

“Please, speak freely,” he insists. “I will not enforce the silence rule, though I will ask that you please keep a respectable volume. There is no sense in feeling so alone when there are so many of you here to help each other pass the time.”

Again, they stare at him as if he’s gone completely mad. Ferdinand inspects their faces and does not find any familiar ones—no one from the southern wing. That is a relief, at least. It doesn’t feel like anyone here is the culprit, though. They’re all scared. None of them look like blood mages. But, well, he supposes that’s sort of the point. Presumably the blood mage wishes to keep their identity a secret, and would certainly be distrusting of any Templar attempting to communicate with them. But for everyone to remain mum like this…

“Oh! I should introduce myself first. I am Knight-Lieutenant Ferdinand von Aegir, at your service. Please, tell me your names. Familiarity will do everyone some good. We can go in a circle, starting here.”

The mage in the closest cell to Ferdinand’s left jumps in his place, shifting uncomfortably before finally saying, “Darren.”

“Well met, Darren,” says Ferdinand. He moves to the next cell, going clockwise.

Gratifyingly, all the mages introduce themselves in turn, and from there they proceed to converse with one another. Ferdinand waits, then asks again if there is anything they might like, and this time they answer. Well, some do. It’s probably better that not everyone has a request—Ferdinand doesn’t know if he could smuggle that many items with him when he comes for his shifts. But he takes note of the ones that are made. The rest of the time, he does not interject in their discussions unprompted, simply sitting back and listening.

In doing so, he learns a bit more about them—their mannerisms, their personalities—and it only further cements his inkling that none of these enchanters are the blood mage the Templars are after. Ferdinand wonders why so many are suspected in the first place. Is it simply protocol? Did they round up every enchanter practicing in the area where the traces of the magic were found? Or, was this what Knight-Commander Rhea meant—was she purposely imprisoning mages she knew were blameless to bait out the real wrongdoer?

By the end of his first day of guard duty, no one has been summoned for questioning. Ferdinand isn’t entirely surprised; the Knight-Commander most likely intends to extend confinement to see if anyone else will confess to save their absent friends. A cunning and clever strategy, to be sure, but even so, Ferdinand doubts its morality, if punishing bystanders in the process is worth eliminating the danger.

The moment the telltale knock of the next guard bangs from the other side of the door, all of the mages hush. All the life is sucked out of the room, the sudden quiet sending a chill down Ferdinand’s spine. He smiles upon them, murmurs well wishes until he returns, and then goes to unlock the door.

For the next couple of days, Ferdinand develops a system with the mages in his custody, alternating who receives food or books on which days so that everyone gets a chance. The dungeons are filled with animated chatter, though they are always careful to keep their voices low enough to not be found out. Some engage in discourse with Ferdinand about the books he brings or recommend others. It evokes a sense of camaraderie that the mages may not have ever been able to accomplish with a Templar until now, given their communal reticence.

The irony that he is encouraging them to disregard the rules isn’t lost on him either.

Sometime on the fourth afternoon, there’s a knock on the door. It’s not the kind that signals the commencement of the interrogation period, and it’s too early to be the end of Ferdinand’s shift. Puzzled, he opens the door to reveal the dour scowl of none other than Hubert, hands held behind his back, shoved forward by another Knight-Lieutenant.

“There’s room for one more, right?” Myles asks.

Ferdinand falters for a moment before regaining his wits. “Oh, yes, right this way.” He moves towards the only empty cell and unlocks it, stepping aside just in time for Hubert to be thrust inside with more force than strictly necessary. Myles releases his hold on Hubert and slams the cell door shut. Ferdinand’s hands go automatically to lock it, but his gaze is caught on Hubert, stumbling into the cell, whirling around to glare at the offending Templar with so much raw hatred in his eyes that Ferdinand nearly chokes.

“This is bullshit,” Hubert growls. “This is bullshit and you know it.”

Myles scoffs. “Exactly what a suspected blood mage would say. Especially one who resists confinement.”

“I was already in confinement when the incidents took place,” Hubert snaps. “Give me one good reason I should be brought here.”

“Cause you’re a piece of shit who doesn’t know his place,” Myles sneers. He barely even gives Ferdinand a once-over; he nods briefly and then strides out of the room, leaving Ferdinand to flounder and lock up behind him.

Silence descends up the dungeons once more, broken only by the jangling of the keys and the clicking sounds of Ferdinand working the lock.

He takes a minute for some calming breathing exercises, after which he turns to find them all engrossed with one another—all except for Hubert. Ferdinand walks over to the newly occupied cell where Hubert sits cross-legged in the corner as he usually does, massaging his wrists. In the dim lighting, Ferdinand can just make out the shadows of bruises there.

“Are you all right?” he asks softly.

Hubert’s eyes flicker up to him, fixating on Ferdinand’s chest, on the flaming Templar sword branded across his breastplate. “It’ll take more than that stunt to injure me,” he mutters. He eyes the rest of the dungeon warily. “What even is this?”

“A more comfortable space for everyone, or as much as it can be under the circumstances,” Ferdinand readily replies.

Hubert snorts. “This has got to be the biggest spectacle in all of Thedas.”

“I highly doubt that. And at any rate, you know the drill. What would you like me to bring you tomorrow?”

Hubert glances about and Ferdinand follows suit: mages are grouped close to their connecting bars, deep in conversation; some read out loud to their fellows in adjacent cells from books Ferdinand has provided. The mood is lively and casual, nothing like how it has ever been with Hubert.

Not that the last time Ferdinand had been guarding Hubert was bad. It was simply…different.

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“I said I want nothing.” Hubert practically spits the words out, ripples of resentment radiating off of him as tangible as his magic.

Ferdinand considers this, and says, “I will endeavor to surprise you, then.”

Hubert bristles. “What part of nothing does your diminutive brain not understand?”

Ferdinand looks down on him levelly. “I understand that you are upset right now. Therefore, I will allow you to stew in your rage for the time being, as is your right, but I cannot sit idly by and watch you suffer for an extended period. Thus, I will have something ready for you tomorrow of my own careful choosing, when you will be in a better mood to appreciate it.”

“Meddling piece of shit,” Hubert grumbles, but he doesn’t press the issue.

Ferdinand goes back to his seat and tries not to sigh too loudly. But no one else seems to notice, their spirits undampened, and Hubert doesn’t put up a fuss for the rest of the shift, electing to brood quietly in his cell. 

The days pass this way, and Hubert remains mostly silent. He harrumphs when Ferdinand brings him both a bread roll and a book the next day, but he eats and reads like all the others. Not that they don’t get food otherwise—after everyone else in the Circle has taken their meals, leftovers are brought to the dungeons—but Ferdinand takes joy in knowing that he can give everyone these additional comforts, insignificant in the grand scale of things as they may be. He’s proud of this environment that he’s fostering, though, and he thinks the mages really do appreciate it, in their own way.

And when the expected knocking pattern finally raps against the door, the atmosphere in the room grows subdued, though not with dread. When Darren is called upon first, he worries his lower lip between his teeth but does not flinch as Knight-Captain Aimeric escorts him to the questioning room. Ferdinand is sure, down to the marrow of his bones, that none of his charges here are the suspected blood mage. By this point, he’s had enough time to mull Knight-Commander Rhea’s words in his head, and he has fully embraced his theory of why they are here.

Well—except Hubert. Hubert, he reckons, is here simply because he is not well liked for his attitude. And because he has a history of singeing Templar moustaches.

One by one, the enchanters are taken out and back. They smile once the dungeon doors are closed once more, flushed with relief that they will not be further accused.

Again, everyone except Hubert. Oddly, he is not taken in, though Ferdinand supposes that makes a sort of sense if he was simply imprisoned for getting on a Templar’s nerves since his alibi tracked. Everyone else is released before he is, and it’s back to the way things were.

Ferdinand has no time to strike up a private conversation with Hubert, however, because the interrogation knock sounds once more.

“One moment!” Ferdinand calls. He steps to the front of the bars to Hubert’s cell. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks.

Hubert’s pale eyes pierce his. Assessing, calculating, Ferdinand doesn’t know.

“No.”

Ferdinand sighs, and allows the incoming Knight-Lieutenant to take him away. Hubert goes with no resistance, and something in Ferdinand’s chest tightens.

It’s longer than anticipated before Hubert is brought back. The moment Ferdinand opens the door, he comes face-to-face with a bloody nose and sagging shoulders.

Ferdinand halts in the doorway; his legs have somehow forgotten how to move. He can’t tear his eyes away from Hubert. The way his eyelids flutter, the way his arms are being held behind his back, the way his knees buckle.

He’s been hit with a Smite. No—way more than one.

“You gonna stand there or are you gonna let me bring him in?”

Ferdinand blinks back to himself as he realizes he’s being spoken to. “Oh, apologies. I can take this from here, Ser.”

The Knight-Lieutenant frowns, but then he breaks into a snicker. “Of course,” he says, as if it couldn’t be more obvious. “You want some time with him when he’s like this. Can’t say I blame you, even if this one’s a bit of a greaseball. He’s all yours.”

Did he just—

And with that, Hubert is pushed into Ferdinand’s arms. Ferdinand instinctively catches him before he collapses, even as the rush of blood in his ears threatens to overtake him.

Then the Templar gives a cheery wave and goes.

Goes off on his merry way, as if what he’s just said—as if he thinks _Ferdinand_ would—because that’s what they all—

Hubert sags into him further, and Ferdinand’s jaw clenches.

It’s worryingly easy to support Hubert’s weight in one arm as he closes and locks the door with the other. He doesn’t dare move Hubert any farther than this just yet, so he gently lowers Hubert into the guard’s chair. Hubert’s head lolls, and Ferdinand’s stomach lurches with a surge of nausea.

“I have you, Hubert,” Ferdinand murmurs as he fumbles for a kerchief from the pouch at his waist. “They’re gone now.” Cloth in hand, he touches it to the blood dripping from Hubert’s nose, and Hubert recoils. “Don’t fret. I am just going to clean this up a little bit.”

Hubert is mostly unresponsive as Ferdinand cleans him up. No further blood is pouring from his nose, so it is just a matter of wiping the excess, taking care not to exert too much pressure. He drops the reddened fabric to the floor once he’s done, not wanting to put it back in his pouch yet. Then, with featherlight strokes, he thumbs away a spot that he’d missed.

A grunt this time. Ferdinand brushes Hubert’s bangs back to examine his eyes, ostensibly to check for any signs of potential head trauma, but also so that he can perfectly perceive the moment in which they regain their focus.

Ferdinand figures that will be the moment Hubert snarls at him to get away, but Hubert just stares and gives a tired little sigh. As if resigned to something.

“Would’ve thought you’d prefer me on my knees,” Hubert mumbles.

_Oh, Maker_.

It’s equivalent to a demand to back off though so, so much more damning. Ferdinand leaps back, trembling hands in the air and a hollow void in his heart. “I swear, Hubert,” he implores miserably, “that is not my intention.” His eyes sting, and he doesn’t know how else to convey all those words encompass.

_Even though they have all made you think that I would—even though they have all wronged you, hurt you, failed you—I promise. I will not, I will not, I will not_.

Hubert lifts an arm to rub his eyes. He looks so weak like this. Ferdinand hates it.

“What is your intention, then?”

Ferdinand draws a steadying breath and gestures to the bloodied cloth on the stone floor next to the chair. This, he can do. “To help you with your wounds and ensure a swift recovery. Multiple Smites and a blow to the nose, I assume. Did they do anything else to you?”

“They think I’m the big bad blood mage,” Hubert says, his words slightly slurred. “Don’t you?”

“I asked you a question first.”

Hubert sniffs. “You don’t get to ask me that.”

“Well,” Ferdinand counters, “a non-answer for a non-answer, then.”

Hubert shrugs noncommittally, and Ferdinand swallows down the rise of bile up his throat. Hubert should never be this docile. He should be fighting back, talking back, every step of the way.

Ferdinand mentally counts to ten before speaking again. “Sit a while longer, until the effects of the Smites have worn off. I would highly recommend you try standing and walking around after that.”

He doesn’t expect an answer. He doesn’t get one.

So Ferdinand paces to the opposite end of the room and plops himself down on the cold stone floor. It is entirely uncomfortable, and he realizes with an abject horror that this is what the mages have all been sitting on for the past week so as to avoid awkwardly sinking the cots come bedtime.

He hasn’t done enough, not nearly. He needs to do so much more.

He wonders if it would be possible to outfit all the cells with blankets, a fluffier pillow than the current monstrosities, and maybe a chair. Perhaps a small table, just a simple thing to eat off of. The cost of such items surely cannot outstrip Tantervale Circle’s budget. He could formulate a case for it, meet with one of the Knight-Captains or perhaps even Knight-Commander Rhea to get it approved—

“You realize when they find you’ve let me run amok in the dungeons unchecked, you will be decommissioned faster than you can say _Andraste_ , right?”

Ferdinand’s head snaps up. Hubert’s eyes glitter with their usual danger again, and he’s wearing his signature smirk.

“I would hope,” Ferdinand says, choosing his words cautiously, “that this show of good faith today will be rewarded in kind.” He tilts his head towards Hubert’s cell, still unlocked, door swung open. “I do not care if you return here now, when the next rotation arrives, or anytime in between, but I cannot lie and say that it will not disappoint me if you never do.”

Hubert offers him a most sinister smile. “I would so love to disappoint you.”

Ferdinand does not dignify that with a response. Instead, he eyes the book he’d left Hubert, tucked away in the shadows under the cot so as to evade the other Templars’ notice. The weight of Hubert’s stare, tracking his movements like a predator hunts prey, makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He knows Hubert is doing this on purpose, and will not actually try to trap him in the cell should Ferdinand enter to retrieve the book. And besides, Ferdinand is the one with the keys—though Hubert _could_ melt the lock with the proper spell.

He shakes himself over, scolding himself internally for being so paranoid. He stands and fetches the book.

And Hubert does nothing. Not as Ferdinand steps fully into the cell, not as Ferdinand’s back is completely towards him as he bends over to grab the book, not as Ferdinand turns back to exit the cell.

Ferdinand makes himself as comfortable as possible, leaning against the wall opposite Hubert in the guard’s chair, and settles in to read.

It’s not long before the hum of magic fills the musty dungeon air. It’s nothing overt, just enough to establish a presence.

Ferdinand nearly sighs with relief, because he knows this game. He doesn’t even bother losing his place on his page. “No funny business,” he reminds Hubert.

Hubert chuckles. “We’ll see.”

It’s an empty threat, Ferdinand knows, but he still can’t help but tense a bit when the magic’s melody grows louder, reverberating off the walls, a hymn to the lyrium in Ferdinand’s blood. Flowing closer, and closer, until—

Ferdinand looks up just in time to watch Hubert regard him with cool, disdainful eyes from where he looms over him, so very near, before he walks back into his cell.

Ferdinand exhales low, controlled. He pushes to his feet and locks the door—might as well do so now. Then he returns to his reading spot on the floor. The chair is vacant now, he knows, but he doesn’t quite feel like moving away.

So he continues reading. Hubert’s magic continues to penetrate the air, but as always, nothing comes of it.

It’s far too soon when the knock on the door announces the change in rotation.

Ferdinand peers back into the cell at Hubert, who has dispelled whatever mundane magic he was manifesting. He is typically gaunt to begin with, but his features have regained their color and his nose bears no evidence of injury. Rudimentary healing magic, then. It’s…mollifying, to see. 

“Thank you,” Ferdinand whispers.

Head down, Hubert raises a hand in reply.

It’s the most acknowledgement he’s ever given. It is a precious gift.

Ferdinand knows, now, that this is more than he deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the CW: Hubert is assaulted by a Templar off-screen. This involves multiple Smites (a Templar ability that drains a mage of their power and severely weakens them) and a punch to the nose. While woozy in the aftermath, he accidentally lets slip that he expects Ferdinand to take advantage of him while he's in this state.
> 
> Next chapter: An unexpected opportunity, and an unlikely partnership.
> 
> [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


	6. Act 1 Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, major thanks to Unrivaled, Adaire, Frog, and Goop for the priceless insight, validation, and guidance to ensure this chapter came together as intended. I definitely had some humbling moments with this one in realizing my writing is sometimes not as effective as I think it is. Also, getting to learn how different people read and analyze my work is crazy fun. That said, if there are ever parts that are confusing, I'd really appreciate hearing about it!
> 
> No CWs for this chapter, so you can dive right in and enjoy.

Once Hubert is released from the dungeons, life at Tantervale goes back to normal for some time. There are only a couple events of note: a handful of Templars accept a transfer to Kirkwall—Edmund Solomon is one of them, leaving Ferdinand internally a little pleased to see him go; and a few trainees pass their Harrowing to earn the rank of Junior Enchanter, Amber being one of them.

One mage, however, falls to demonic temptation while trapped in the Fade, and the Rite of Tranquility is rushed to save him. Ferdinand isn’t one of the Templars on duty when it happens, but he hears the gossip later from Pam and Joanne.

He lies in his bed that night and stares at the ceiling as he revisits his teachings. The Chantry states that the Fade was the first realm the Maker ever created, the primeval matter from which Thedas was born. There, the spirits walked, the first of His children. However, they defied Him, became the demons known to this day, and thus the Maker separated the two worlds with the Veil. Yet still magic had dispersed across Thedas. Mages are intrinsically linked to the Fade because of that, and therefore susceptible to the influence of demons as well. Thankfully, methods of traversing through the Veil and into the Fade are expensive, costing great sums of energy and lyrium, and so mages are not permitted or able to attempt it. The closest they can reach is therefore in dreaming.

The Harrowing is every mage’s first time entering the Fade. It pits them against a demon, a means of proving themselves worthy of existing with their magic. Should they succeed, they return in one piece. Should they fail… Well, ultimately, the Rite of Tranquility will sever them from any connection to the Fade, rid them of their powers, and preserve their soul. Ferdinand should be relieved that these measures are in place and well-executed, yet it rings hollow here. A question nags at the corners of his thoughts: why is the Harrowing’s price so steep? It is so much simpler to become a Templar, or a soldier.

He shakes himself over. Why is he having doubts now? Magic is infinitely more dangerous than training to be part of the city guard or somesuch. Of course the stakes must be higher during the Harrowing. The havoc an abomination could wreck upon the world is a terrifying prospect to behold.

It strikes him, then, that it is the _preparation_ for the Harrowing that unsettles him here. Whichever Templars stationed in that poor mage’s studying space probably never gave him the option to learn how to wrestle back control. That supports the abundance of Tranquil working here at Tantervale compared to Ansburg; trainees here lack sufficient experience in overcoming obstacles. To get their first taste of such a challenge in a life-or-death situation with a demon in the Fade is appalling.

Maker’s breath, he is being needlessly dramatic now. To label it as life-or-death is a gross falsehood. A mage must only be killed if the Templars are not fast enough to prevent them from turning into an abomination—and by then, they are nothing more than a monster anyways. The Rite of Tranquility spares them from that horror, and ensures they can live out the rest of their life in peace.

Even so… Ferdinand thinks back to Amber, the absolute sunbeam of a grin she’d burst into the moment she next saw him, and that eases the foreign ache inside of him, that he was able to be of such help for someone.

Through all this, though, there’s no more news on the blood magic investigation. Ferdinand would have expected at least some updates, even if they haven’t found the culprit yet, but there’s nothing. He supposes there still hasn’t been enough evidence to connect the offense back to any particular individual. And the blood mage in question has probably realized that they will have to act more cautiously from now on, and is probably biding their time before they strike again.

On the bright side, the mages in the library’s southern wing are thriving under Ferdinand’s watch. The other trainees, inspired by Amber’s success, intensify their practice with newfound zeal, and it is such a joy to see their growth. It puts everyone in better spirits, even some of the other Templars assigned under Ferdinand. With Edmund Solomon gone, a new Knight-Corporal is transferred to Ferdinand’s team, and Ferdinand aggressively promotes camaraderie and encouragement so that they can readily acclimate to the healthier environment.

“Have you read any good books lately?” Ferdinand asks Hubert on one of his rounds. Hubert is actually casting today, no books surrounding his spot by the wall. He’s standing, flicking his wrists and fingers, guiding and toying with a few little clouds of what Ferdinand recognizes to be Miasma in the air, circling him.

Hubert doesn’t even look at Ferdinand as he manipulates his globules of the spell, but he answers all the same. “Oh, several. All excellent documentations of the great variety and uses of Hexes and Debilitation. I would relish the opportunity to practice on you.”

“You know the rules, Hubert,” Ferdinand says, but he puts no warning into it. He knows there’s no need. At least, he hopes so, that Hubert tolerating him like this means Ferdinand is finally breaking through Hubert’s cold barriers.

“A shame,” Hubert croons in what is a purposely foreboding tone. “It would be such fun.”

“I’m sure,” Ferdinand replies curtly. “Have you prepared a list?”

In lieu of response, Hubert indicates with a finger, and one of the little clouds of Miasma floats towards Ferdinand. Ferdinand resolutely holds his ground, even as the Miasma gets so near that the lyrium in his veins cries out to counter it, gravitating to do so, and the Miasma abruptly changes direction and moves to hover atop a sheet of paper on the nearby table. Once Ferdinand has noticed the page, the spell fizzles and dissipates.

“Yes, yes, very clever, you have excellent control over your spells,” Ferdinand huffs, even if it’s the truth. He doesn’t sweet talk Hubert and Hubert would probably Hex him for real if he’d said that sincerely. Or maybe not, at this point, but Ferdinand isn’t about to risk all the goodwill he’s cultivated so far for something so trivial.

When the remnant wisps of magic have faded from the page, Ferdinand picks it up. Sure enough, in Hubert’s narrow scrawl is a list of three titles and their locations in the library.

“I’ll give you time to learn about them,” Hubert offers grandly, still swirling his remaining spells around. “That way, you’ll know for sure what hits you.”

Ferdinand rolls his eyes, waves, and resumes his patrol.

This agreement they currently have—it’s not strictly a partnership, and Ferdinand struggles to put a name to it—well, it’s nice. On a whim, Ferdinand had requested book recommendations on topics Hubert was interested in, and Hubert had surprisingly acquiesced. It’s a rather indirect method of getting to know Hubert better, but to Ferdinand, it feels like he can glean so much this way. Any books off the list that are located in the southern wing are assembled as he goes, and then he hunts down what’s left at the end of his shift when the dinner bell chimes.

That evening, he sits cross-legged on his bed, the books spread out across the sheets. He closes his eyes and rummages for them, moving them around, swapping their positions until he’s sure he no longer knows which book is which. Next, he arranges them side by side in a neat row, and passes his hand back and forth across the covers.

He lifts his head to the sky and murmurs a prayer for the evening, letting the verses flow with the sweep of his hand.

_Blessed are they who stand before  
_ _The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.  
_ _Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just._

_Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.  
_ _In their blood the Maker’s will is written._

He stops there, resting his hand overtop a leather-bound text. He opens his eyes, smiling when he sees that he’s selected _The Subtleties of Hexes_. Fitting, that. He gathers the other books and piles them on his nightstand, then settles down with his chosen text for a bit of leisure reading before bed.

He’s only turned a couple of pages when a slip of paper drops out. Ferdinand frowns at it. It is not a torn page from the book, for while there is writing on it, it is nothing like the book’s print. This is written in a hasty scribble, nothing like the meticulous technique with which a book is put together.

Ferdinand plucks the piece of paper from his blanket and squints at it. It’s ripped at the edges, so some of the writing is cut off, but he can still make out most of the words.

_—like lyrium, but red in color. It’s just a small fragment, but you’ll hear its song just the same. Just be careful. This could be dirty. It already took a lot to get this here. You can’t tell anyone else about it. And if you can’t control—_

Ferdinand stares. Reads it again. And again. Gradually, it dawns on him that he’s just read an account of a lyrium smuggling ring. There’s a reason they get their supplies directly from the Chantry: the pure, refined doses are safe to use and maintain the Templars’ magic-suppressing abilities. If this smuggled lyrium is dirty, it could severely harm whoever ingests it, and cause even more damage besides.

He has to inform Knight-Commander Rhea.

~o~

Ferdinand meets with her first thing in the morning, before breakfast. He barely slept that night, from sheer nerves and excitement brimming over with the urge to let her know. So he’s up early, and he heads straight to her office, thankful to find her door already open.

She looks up as he approaches, and Ferdinand can’t even be bothered to be sheepish about his noisy footsteps.

“Knight-Lieutenant,” she greets, her head tilted just enough to portray a slight concern.

He salutes. “Good morning, Knight-Commander. I have news to share with you that I believe may be quite important.”

Her expression switches to businesslike in an instant. “I see. Close the door behind you and have a seat.”

Ferdinand does, and then he places the note on her desk for her to examine. He explains his theories while she reads, scrutinizing, her porcelain features completely impassive.

She sets the note back down and looks Ferdinand square in the eyes. Ferdinand doesn’t think he’s ever seen her so serious, and it almost makes him quake in his boots.

“This is a severe accusation to make if it is false,” she warns. “But if this holds weight, a lyrium smuggling ring within my Circle cannot be allowed to continue.”

“I could not agree more,” Ferdinand says emphatically. “This not only goes against the Chantry’s will, but it could prove incredibly dangerous. And there’s also the issue of it being described as red. I’ve cornered a smuggling ring in the past at Ansburg, but I’ve never heard of or seen anything about unlawful lyrium being red.”

Knight-Commander Rhea nods. “That is indeed worrisome. You were right in bringing this straight to me, Knight-Lieutenant. I will have to reflect carefully on how to move forward with this information.”

“What if you let me handle it?” Ferdinand blurts. At his Knight-Commander’s hard stare, he elaborates: “I could look into it for you. Alone. That way, this stays between you and me, and I give you my word that I will not divulge these secrets to anyone you do not wish me to, to ensure this information does not fall upon the wrong hands.”

She contemplates for a long moment. Then she affords him a small smile. “You make an excellent point,” she admits. “Well, this seems like as good a trial as any.”

Ferdinand frowns. “Trial?”

Her grin widens. “Why yes,” she says, a twinkle in her eyes. “You came here seeking to fill the vacant Knight-Captain role. I am certainly eager to see you fill it, given the amount of potential you’ve shown thus far, but these circumstances require a certain level of proving oneself. Therefore, I propose that we make this your final trial. Conduct this investigation in secret from your fellow Templars, reporting only to me, and if I am satisfied with your results, I will grant you your promotion.”

Of course. It makes perfect sense. Tantervale has functioned with only three Knight-Captains instead of four for some time now, and blood magic incidents aside, things have seemed to be operating as per the norm here. Knight-Commander Rhea would not race to fill the opening to fix something that was not broken, and she understandably wants to be certain of her decision.

It's the opportunity he’s been waiting for.

“I accept,” he proclaims.

Knight-Commander Rhea graces him with a smile so bright it cannot be anything but genuine. “I am so glad to hear it. I look forward to witnessing your efforts bear fruit.”

Ferdinand takes that as his dismissal and rises from his seat, retrieving the note and saluting. “I will not let you down, Knight-Commander.” It’s a promise.

~o~

“Say, Hubert, do you ever catch Templars engaging in suspicious activities?”

They’re both sitting in an aisle in the library. It’s Ferdinand’s off day, and he’d foregone visiting the town in preference of further research. He’s dragged a table closer and established a workspace for himself, collecting books from various wings and finally bringing them here. That Hubert allows him to share his usual bubble rejuvenates Ferdinand in his tasks, especially when Hubert will entertain his musings.

Now, Hubert looks up at him from his spot on the floor with one eyebrow cocked. “When are they not?” he drawls.

Ferdinand crosses his arms over his chest. “I know you know what I mean.”

“How are you so terrified of using the term _illegal_?”

“I am not _terrified_! I am trying to be discreet.”

Hubert considers him before turning a page of his book. “I notice things sometimes,” he says slowly, as if he is choosing his words carefully.

“Do other enchanters notice things sometimes as well?”

Hubert gives a noncommittal shrug. “Not much point in it. We’re expected to go about our business and pay no mind or judgment to whatever our _betters_ get up to.” The word drips with disdain. “It doesn’t concern us, of course.”

Ferdinand mentally checks himself. He has sworn his silence on the matter, but the specificities were related to other Templars. Mages hadn’t ever factored into the equation. And Hubert is the safest possible confidant, really.

“What if you noticed something that could result in severe repercussions for some unsuitable Templars?”

Hubert flashes him a grin. “I do always enjoy pest control. Are you flushing some rats from their holes? Quite magnanimous of you.”

“Yes, yes.” Ferdinand waves him off. “I am trying to ask you a serious question, Hubert.”

“Then stop all this prancing around the subject and ask.”

Ferdinand sighs. Glances around quickly to ensure no one, mage or Templar, is walking within earshot. He lowers his voice anyways. “I am wondering if you know anything about Templars taking lyrium from unofficial sources.”

If Ferdinand didn’t know better, he would say some tension leaves Hubert’s shoulders. Hubert says, “Smuggling rings are quite commonplace, Knight-Lieutenant.”

“I thought I asked you to call me Ferdinand.”

“And I told you no.”

“Maker’s breath, have I earned no favor with you at all?” Ferdinand laments. He doesn’t mean for it to come out as such a whine.

“Nope.” It’s accentuated with a popping noise.

Ferdinand makes an exasperated sound. “You are insufferable.”

“Take your studies elsewhere, then.”

“I am trying to enlist your assistance,” Ferdinand insists. And then, before he can give Hubert another chance to speak, he adds, “Have you ever heard of lyrium that is red?”

There’s a beat, in which Hubert raises his eyebrows higher than they have any right to go, as if the answer should be obvious. Ferdinand stares, thinking hard. He had only discovered this strange anomaly because the note had been embedded in...

“ _You_ put the n—” he starts loudly, but Hubert cuts him off with a hiss.

“Have you no tact? I thought you were trying to be discreet.”

“Ah, my apologies. It is just that—” His head spins as he grapples with this new, elated reality in which _Hubert_ came to _him_. It’s uncovered a world of endless possibilities, of progress, of change, of—his heartrate trips over the prospect, lest putting a name to it prematurely topples the foundation, but so overwhelmingly hopeful—trust. “Sometimes people can be…surprising.”

Hubert flips another page, head down, face hidden. “The feeling is mutual.”

Feeling daring, Ferdinand says, “But sometimes it is rewarding to take a leap of faith.”

“Hmph.”

But not even Hubert’s reluctant admittance can dampen this thrill of victory now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: So, uh, Hubert is helping now(?) 
> 
> [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


	7. Act 1 Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am beyond delighted to be able to share this [amazing art](https://twitter.com/ghiralewd/status/1327734953900191751) that was commissioned for me for my birthday yesterday. It's of Templar Ferdinand, but with a custom armor design (the typical Templar breastplate features a flaming sword, but this one depicts a sun instead, for sentimental reasons involving me getting emotional about sun and moon imagery). At this point in the fic, Ferdinand is still definitely sporting the proper Templar uniform, but I absolutely need everyone to see how amazing he looks. Thank you so much Goop and SIGF for the gift, and to ghiralewd for bringing this vision to life!
> 
> Also, a quick retroactive note: I realized while writing this chapter that it was the first time I'd ever mentioned Templars' physical training. Templars are definitely trained to fight, and therefore must keep up their techniques. So, I added a line at the beginning of Chapter 4 to allude to the fact that Templars in Tantervale Circle do in fact train on a regular basis. Sorry for not making that clear previously, but I hope this ensures there won't be any issues going forward!
> 
> There's also some lore drops in this chapter; ideally they should still make sense / help flesh out the world for those not familiar with it, but if there's any confusion, please do let me know!

Ferdinand’s life is grand.

Truly, he hasn’t been this happy in a long time, perhaps not since he first earned his rank of Knight-Lieutenant back at Ansburg. Back then, he’d preened under the praise and promise of new responsibilities, challenges to soar to new heights. Eventually, though, the work had grown rote, stale. There was no more room for improvement, hence why he sought advancement elsewhere.

Now, he has recovered from the shock of life at Tantervale and implemented measures to make it better. He gets to train nearly every day, constantly testing the limits of his strength. He’s been assigned an exciting task, a thrilling mystery to solve, one whose success will grant him his promotion at last.

And Hubert is helping him.

Hubert, whose hatred of Templars knows no bounds. Hubert, so unwilling to trust. Somehow, despite all his flippant words, Hubert has seen merit enough to rely on Ferdinand’s cooperation in cleansing Tantervale Circle of the lyrium smuggling ring. It is unequivocal progress, and Ferdinand cherishes it.

That said, Hubert does not divulge much—most likely he is reluctant to hazard worsening his already poor standing with the other Templars. Mages here already risk great suffering if they were to snitch, which is frankly ridiculous given the unlawful systems they would actively be helping to eradicate. Alternatively, it is possible that Hubert simply does not have more information for Ferdinand at this time. Either way, there are always further insights available for Ferdinand to gain from observation, if he knows where to look.

He is perhaps still working on that bit, but he is confident the instinct for it will come with time.

“All right, I have prepared my summary,” Ferdinand tells him one afternoon.

They are in the library’s southern wing while Ferdinand is off duty. He’s researching at the desk he’s commandeered for himself while Hubert reads and practices his craft, mostly Hexes. Some days, like today, he’ll unleash a Misdirection Hex just at the opening connecting the aisle to the main hall of the library, effectively creating a barrier to speak more candidly should another walk past.

Which Ferdinand takes advantage of now.

His eyes scan his point-form list of the key observations he’s made thus far. “To summarize: neither of us recognize who inked the note. I have obtained signatures from all of the Templars assigned to this wing, as all must sign in and out for their shifts. The note matches none of them, therefore the distributor of the note is not of the southern wing. The note was located in the southern wing, however, suggesting the recipient takes shifts here.”

“Or neither party is of the southern wing, and elected to perform the exchange somewhere neither is likely to spend time in, to elude suspicion further,” Hubert offers.

Ferdinand grimaces. “Ah, you may be right there. That certainly would make things more complicated.”

“If only it were simple,” Hubert laments in what is a purposefully teasing tone. “Poor Knight-Lieutenant. He has to put in more work when he thought he had this in the bag.”

“I am not like that!” Ferdinand protests. “I will put in whatever work it takes to get to the bottom of this.”

Hubert harrumphs, but Ferdinand knows the distaste in his voice is overshadowed by his distaste for dirty lyrium and the Templars that use it. He wants the smuggling ring to be dismantled just as fervently as Ferdinand strives to uncover it.

For the next few days, Ferdinand conducts his studies independently, hunting down timesheets for the other three library wings to compare with his mystery note. He finds a few signatures with scripts similar to the note’s, so he records the Templars’ names and seeks out Hubert to brainstorm ways to confirm which suspect is the one.

It is mostly Hubert who devises clever tactics for requesting written notes from Ferdinand’s fellows. Gathering them takes some time, but under the guise of making a goodwill supply run to town for a treat of baked pastries from the local patisserie, he manages to get written orders on paper. To not appear suspicious, Ferdinand makes sure to do his rounds and ask as many Templars as possible to add to the list, and does indeed carry through with his gesture. Knight-Captain Aimeric seems heartened by his actions, and permits him to borrow a horse and a cart to aid him on his return trip. Then, once Ferdinand makes his deliveries, it’s time to dissect the list.

It takes some time and scrutiny, but Ferdinand is eventually able to pinpoint the author of the original note. It turns out to belong to a Knight-Lieutenant stationed in the western wing, Brenden, that Ferdinand is not well acquainted with, but with whom Hubert has some past experience.

“Like what?” Ferdinand prompts.

Hubert snorts. “Guard duty in the dungeons,” he says glibly. “You know how it is.”

A stone sinks in Ferdinand’s belly. “I am sorry.”

“I don’t need your pity,” Hubert snaps. “It’s a better use of your resources to figure out who received his note next.”

Ferdinand doesn’t know if there exists any way to even remotely make up for what mages like Hubert have been through, though serving justice is likely his best chance. It will have to do, for now.

So he reports his findings to Knight-Commander Rhea. She bestows an approving smile upon him when he finishes.

“This is very promising, Knight-Lieutenant,” she says. “I shall have to speak with him myself.”

“Will you require any assistance from me?”

She shakes her head. “No, I daresay it might hinder any further investigation you undertake. If you make yourself known, he may have time to warn his co-conspirators about you.”

Oh. “An excellent point,” he says. “Well, then, I will endeavor to discover the identity of the note’s recipient next.”

Knight-Commander Rhea waves him off dismissively. “Keep up the good work.”

A day later, Knight-Lieutenant Brenden is discharged. Ferdinand watches from a distance with Pam and Joanne as Knight-Captains Aimeric and Marco escort him and his things from the premises. He’s red in the face, spewing obscenities and other nonsense, but it does not escalate to anything violent.

“That was fast,” Hubert comments the next time they’re alone in the library aisle. He’s reading what looks surprisingly to be mostly fictional, or rather, a summative text on Titan mythology. Ferdinand himself knows little of them, save that they are said to have helped shape the world, dwell deep beneath the earth, and are possibly linked to the Stone, from which dwarven civilization comes. “Forgive me for doubting your interrogation prowess.”

Ferdinand chuckles to alleviate some of the disappointment. “I’m afraid your praise is misplaced,” he admits. “I was regrettably not given an opportunity to speak with him. Knight-Commander Rhea believed that would jeopardize my investigation if I did.”

Hubert’s tome thumps to the ground; Ferdinand winces as it lands right on Hubert’s toes. Hubert does not react, his eyes snapping up to look at Ferdinand, intensely focused. “You imbecile!” he hisses. “You have no further leads!”

“And what if Brenden tried to warn his friend?” Ferdinand argues.

Hubert lets out a long huff of exasperation. “There are myriad ways to keep someone quiet, to get rid of someone without allowing them contact with anyone else. Templars do this with mages all the time. The Knight-Commander knows better than this.” His eyes narrow dangerously, and he lowers his voice. “She is setting you up to fail.”

“What?” Ferdinand exclaims, completely baffled. “No, that makes no sense. You have previously agreed with me that this red lyrium might be more dangerous than usual, did you not? Therefore, we must take extra precautions with it. And besides, there is nothing wrong with a good challenge.”

“An impossible challenge, more like,” Hubert mutters. He bends down to retrieve the fallen tome, shaking his foot lightly. “I swear, if I sprained my toe because of you…”

“Do not be so dramatic,” Ferdinand scoffs. “You can simply Heal it.”

Hubert looks at him strangely. “No, I can’t.”

Ferdinand frowns. “Surely that is a minor enough injury that a Heal spell can mend it, no?”

“You would have been correct,” Hubert says, enunciating slowly as if Ferdinand is a child requiring great care in having things explained to him, “if I had the ability to use Healing magic.”

Ferdinand blinks. “You don’t?”

Hubert shakes his head. “Rare as it is, I don’t see why you’re so surprised. I have tried practicing at it, but the intricacies of it elude my grasp. It does not come naturally to me like Hexing does.”

That does make a sort of sense, given the limited number of mages Ferdinand has come across who are capable of casting such spells. It shouldn’t be remarkable that Hubert is lacking in that department. Ferdinand would do well to remember that everyone has their specialties, and that just because someone excels in several facets of magic does not imply mastery of them all.

“Well,” he settles for, “I am sure you will make a swift recovery.”

He realizes, though, as he sifts through his notes, that Hubert was right: he has no evidence whatsoever purporting to the exchange of the note.

Sighing, he looks back to Hubert. “I don’t suppose you would like to share with me anything you’ve been reading.”

The corners of Hubert’s mouth quirk up. “I suppose I might be,” he replies conspiratorially.

Ferdinand throws him his most petulant pouting face. “And you were going to string me along until I asked?”

“Why, yes. It’s quite enjoyable.”

“You are insufferable.”

“As are you.” Hubert picks up a quill and twirls it between his fingers. “But I do so love having you in my debt.”

“I did not realize you were keeping a record,” Ferdinand shoots back, even as Hubert is already scribbling titles onto a page. Ferdinand understands Hubert’s methods now: his preferred means of imparting information is through books. He will recommend books to Ferdinand, and when Ferdinand searches for them, one will undoubtedly contain a clue he needs.

This time, Hubert’s references include more than just titles: they feature a page and line number in each. Ferdinand frowns up at Hubert after reading through them, but Hubert merely lifts his chin as if to say, _Do you really want to challenge me on this_? While Ferdinand’s answer is most certainly _Yes_ , he recognizes that he must not take Hubert’s boon for granted. So he sets about finding the texts and works through them in his room that night.

He looks through them in order this time. When he turns to the appropriate page in the first book, regarding the application of the scientific theory in weaponsmithing, he prods with his finger and counts down the lines, until he reaches line number twenty-one, as indicated, which bears the sentence:

_After many meetings concerning the matter, an experimental plan was derived._

What in Thedas could that have to do with anything? Ferdinand transcribes the phrase into a notebook, then examines what Hubert had marked for him next.

The designated page is a calendar.

Most unusual is the fact that Hubert has actually noted several lines. Ferdinand does, and comes up with a series of dates: _10 Drakonis, 25 Drakonis, 10 Cloudreach, 25 Cloudreach, 10 Bloomingtide, 25 Bloomingtide, 10 Justinian_.

It’s obviously a pattern, but for what? Today marks 23 Justinian, which is just a mere two days away from the next date for whatever this is. Something to do with an experimentation plan of sorts, perhaps? These dates must be connected to the hint in the first text—Hubert must be leading him here for a reason. Ferdinand boggles at Hubert’s wit and memory in putting this together, even if it’s a tad cryptic for his tastes.

Regardless, he moves on to the third book. Much like the first, there is only one line to look for this time, but it’s the end of a sentence:

_at midnight._

The experiments are happening at midnight, every fifteen days. Experiments with the mysterious red lyrium?

He scans the first line again, reading it aloud to himself. “After many meetings concerning the—the meetings!”

He bounces on his bed, practically vibrating with delight as he builds an outline of everything he knows.

  * _Fact: there is a smuggling ring within the Circle exchanging unlawful, red lyrium._
  * _Fact: one of the perpetrators has been caught and decommissioned._
  * _Deduction: There is at least one more Templar involved with the operation._
  * _Theory: There are likely at least two more Templars involved, if Hubert is correct and the supposed meetings are expected to continue._



Something doesn’t sit right with that, though. Hubert had found a note with instructions that last time, implying it had been left for someone, rather than having an actual in-person rendezvous.

  * _Theory: Such an exchange has a strong likelihood of taking place tomorrow night, assuming midnight means when the night of the 24 th turns into the 25th. _



There is so little time.

These are some of the most exciting times in Ferdinand’s life.

~o~

“I would like to speak to you in private immediately,” Ferdinand says the moment he’s entered Hubert’s aisle the next day.

Hubert snorts. “You’re very bad at this, you know.”

Ferdinand takes a breath. Right. Hubert has always vied for discretion. “I had the most enlightening reads last night,” he tries.

Hubert arches a brow, a smile playing at his lips. “Is that so?”

Ferdinand nods emphatically. “You could say I have been inspired.”

“How wonderful.” Despite the derision in Hubert’s tone, his fingertips dance through the air at his sides, glowing faintly, a sign of his illusory Hexes at work.

Ferdinand lowers his voice anyways and says, “So, midnight tonight?”

A hum of agreement. “Southern wing.”

He’d suspected as much, given that was where Hubert had found the original note. If the pattern of dates did not change, likely the location wouldn’t either.

Next Ferdinand asks, “Would you be able to conceal us?”

Hubert’s eyes gleam. “Can’t do it on your own?” he teases.

But Ferdinand is ready for this. “You cannot possibly tell me you actually wish to miss out on the fun.”

He receives a sinister smile at that. “Quite right, Knight-Lieutenant. I’ll find you here an hour after dinner.”

Ferdinand mentally calculates the timing, and says, “We will be waiting here a while, then.”

Hubert shrugs. “Safest bet. If you want me with you, we do it my way.”

“I have no reason to fight you on this,” Ferdinand concurs. “Very well.”

He leaves Hubert to his own devices for the rest of the day, nerves jittering under his skin. He has never actually participated in a stakeout before, but the daring tales he’d read throughout his childhood promised him high levels of suspense and exhilaration. And with Hubert on his side, surely they will identify the remaining members of the smuggling ring.

It’s this thrill that carries him through his duties. After dinner, he goes to the library to read while he waits for Hubert. But eventually, restlessness takes over and he decides to go check how things are going in the dining hall.

Except when he opens the doors, he finds himself face-to-face with a man branded with the symbol of the flaming Templar sun on his forehead.

“Good evening, Ser,” the Tranquil says.

“O-Oh,” Ferdinand stammers. He knows this man. He has seen him plenty of times, up until his failed Harrowing recently— “Good evening, er, Peter, was it?”

Peter gives a slight incline of his head. “Yes, that is me,” he says. His voice is oddly flat, the way all Tranquil sound. It sends gooseflesh rising across Ferdinand’s skin. “I am sorry we have not finished cleaning yet. If you would give us twenty more minutes, I assure you that you will find everything to your liking.”

“Please, I am not here to inspect,” Ferdinand says. “I was looking for someone, but it appears they are no longer here. My apologies for the intrusion. I did not mean to keep you from your work.”

“My work is whatever the Templars command of me,” Peter intones. “It is not an interruption if you wish me to attend you.”

Ferdinand’s skin crawls, but there is a question nagging at him that he can’t bear not learning the answer to. “Say, Peter, are you happy like this? Are you doing better now that the Rite has saved you?”

“Tranquil have no need for feelings,” Peter replies, eerily toneless. “Now that I have no connection to the Fade, there is no risk of a demon possessing me. That is the safest for people like me. My mind may have previously been weak, but now there is nothing left to fear, and no reason to think of anything but the tasks at hand as per my Knight-Commander’s will.”

Ferdinand bites his lip. This is not the first Tranquil he has ever spoken to. It is, however, the first he’s encountered here at Tantervale. He could have sworn the Tranquil at Ansburg were more animated, but now that he’s here, now that he’s thinking about it… Were they always this lethargic, only responding as the need arose?

Something feels terribly wrong here, and Ferdinand cannot place what.

“Do you feel like you should have been given more chances to overcome the demon?” Ferdinand asks.

Peter shakes his head minutely. “Oh, no. Demons are dangerous. The Templars were right to do this to me. It is for the better of the entire establishment.”

It is a satisfying conclusion. Isn’t it?

There’s a beat, and then Peter says, “Do you have further need of me, Ser?”

Ferdinand shakes himself over. “Oh! No, no, that is all. I will not disturb you further.” He takes a step back out of the dining hall. “Have a good evening, Peter.”

And then he rushes back towards the library.

He makes directly for Hubert’s usual aisle and sits down at his makeshift workspace, then lets his face fall into his hands as he tries to forget that unsettling blankness in Peter’s eyes.

The Rite of Tranquility is a mercy. Ferdinand repeats this to himself in his head until his heartrate slows back to normal.

Afterwards, he picks up one of the books from the pile Hubert had left on the ground earlier that day. It’s another text on dwarven lyrium mining, a topic Hubert seems to harbor an active interest in. He wonders if it documents some lyrium mines being red instead of blue. Maybe Ferdinand could borrow it from Hubert sometime.

As he skims through the pages, he doesn’t find anything apropos of what he’s hoping for, but he doesn’t end up with time to ruminate. There’s a rustling sound, and Ferdinand squints at the aisle’s entrance, unable to discern the source.

And then a low voice says into his ear, “ _Boo_.”

Ferdinand scrambles from his chair, and before he can yell, a cold hand is clasped over his mouth.

“Andraste’s tits,” Hubert huffs, “do not blow this just because you got scared.”

“I was not scared,” Ferdinand mutters as Hubert releases him. “I was merely startled, is all.” Hubert lets out a snort of disbelief, and Ferdinand turns to look at him. “I see you decided not to keep the illusion over yourself.”

“I’ll be using enough energy keeping an illusion up over the two of us as it is,” Hubert says with a shrug. “No point in putting a Hex over you too.”

“Well, that benefits all parties, I’d say. As it is, I would rather you not Hex me anyways.” Ferdinand closes the book and straightens his things. “So, what happens now?”

“We wait,” Hubert says. “Whoever comes by gets Hexed so that they won’t notice us. I will warn you, though, I am making a visual Hex only, so you will need to keep your mouth shut.”

They’re reasonable terms, so Ferdinand doesn’t object. “And do we wait in this exact aisle, or elsewhere?”

Hubert makes a face. “Here. Are you done with your incessant prattle?”

Ferdinand offers a sheepish, apologetic smile, and subsides into silence.

Hubert goes to a spot by the wall where he can sit and lean against, and he motions for Ferdinand to join him. Once they’ve settled, they sit and wait.

It feels like an eternity is passing, and nothing comes. The library is illuminated with sconces and candles at night, but even so, it is dim and dreary and foreboding. It’s nothing like Ferdinand’s wistful daydreams of late-night research sessions, but it does fit nicely with the stories of great detectives he’s read in his youth. And a great detective would have plenty of patience for such a venture, therefore Ferdinand must do his utmost to emulate that.

Time marches on at its torturously slow pace, and Ferdinand grows listless. He nearly nods off once or twice, only to be jolted back to reality by the sharp jab of Hubert’s elbow to his ribs.

He is decidedly not falling asleep for the third time when the unmistakable patter of footsteps reaches his ears. He perks up immediately, and next to him, Hubert’s eyes have narrowed. He doesn’t look at Ferdinand, and his fingers twitch, as if eager to cast his carefully prepared Hex.

Hubert times it perfectly. The boot, then leg come into view first, and Hubert’s spell strikes the incoming Templar the moment he looks into the aisle.

Ferdinand holds his breath and stares at the woman who’s just entered. She squints, her head swiveling to and fro as if to ensure she is alone. When she doesn’t seem to notice anything odd, she approaches the desk and slips a piece of paper from her pocket into one of the books, like a bookmark.

Then she scurries away.

Ferdinand counts down from ten in his head, then makes to stand up, but Hubert claps a hand on his shoulder to stop him. When Ferdinand glances at him inquisitively, Hubert brings a finger to his lips in a hushing gesture and shakes his head.

And then Hubert stands instead.

Ferdinand raises his arms in silent exasperation, but Hubert pays him no heed. He tiptoes to the desk instead, delicately opens the book, and takes the note. He peers at it intently for a minute, then takes a small piece of paper from within his robes, lights it up with a brief flash of magic, and replaces the original note with it.

Realization hits Ferdinand then, that Hubert has just cast an illusory Hex on the new note that probably mimics the original. This way, whoever comes to retrieve it will not suspect any foul play, and Ferdinand will be able to study the real copy once this is over.

Hubert returns to his spot and hands the note to Ferdinand, completely casual and expressionless, as though what he’s just done has no use for pride. Ferdinand knows he mustn’t talk, so he catches Hubert’s eyes and mouths the word _brilliant_ instead. Hubert cocks his head in meager acknowledgement.

Ferdinand looks down at the note, and reads:

_It’s just you and me now. Be on your guard—we don’t know if Brenden’s stash was confiscated or not. I will meet our provider outside town in time for our next meeting in his stead._

It’s another lead, and Ferdinand’s insides fizzle with excitement.

Then Hubert speaks, so soft Ferdinand has to strain to hear even though they’re right next to each other. “Did you recognize her? Do you know her name?”

Ferdinand nods once, because yes, he does know who that Templar is—she’s Knight-Lieutenant Sabrina, and she sometimes shares meals with Pam and Joanne.

Hubert gives a satisfied nod and resumes his position, so Ferdinand does the same.

It is much easier this time to keep awake; the anticipation thrums under Ferdinand’s skin, and he feels alive with it, buoyed by the confidence that he will get down to the bottom of this fraudulent practice.

When the second—and, if the note’s contents are anything to go by, final—Templar emerges around the bookshelves, Hubert’s Hex does not fail, and the Templar takes the note and goes. He’s a Knight-Corporal whose name Ferdinand does not know, but the features are starkly identifiable: a shocking crop of red hair and a spill of freckles upon his face. Ferdinand has no doubt he will be able to scrounge up a name on the morrow.

Throughout the process, Hubert keeps a warning hand on Ferdinand’s shoulder, gripping firmly to keep him in place. Even once the Knight-Corporal leaves, Hubert doesn’t budge.

Several minutes later, Hubert’s fingers relax and release him, and Ferdinand lets out a long sigh.

“That was riveting, but I am glad it’s over.”

Hubert meets his eyes expectantly. “You know what to do with this, right?”

Ferdinand scoffs. “Of course I do. I will be on it first thing in the morning.”

“Better get your beauty sleep then,” Hubert sneers.

“A restful sleep is healthy, first and foremost,” Ferdinand retorts, but before he can list the other benefits a thought strikes him. “Say, should I perhaps escort you back to your chambers tonight? Would that be less incriminating than you being seen on your own?”

Hubert stares at him incredulously. “Are you mad? You cannot be seen with me. Get out of here already.”

“Will you be all right going back on your own?”

“I’m not going back.”

“But why not?”

“Safer to stay hidden here and blend back in with the morning crowd than risk being caught trying to sneak back into my room,” Hubert says offhandedly. “Besides, the flooring here is more comfortable than in the dungeons.”

Something constricts in Ferdinand’s chest, that Hubert is so accepting of this fate. There has to be another way for him to retire safely, another way that mitigates the risks—

“What if you followed me back to my chambers?” he blurts.

Hubert’s jaw drops, then clicks shut. His eyes are wide with affront. “Excuse me?” His voice is low and gravelly.

Ferdinand flounders. “I mean no disrespect! I only thought—if you were to follow me, you could cast an illusion so as to not be seen, and you could sneak into my room when I open the door.”

Hubert’s glare is fierce and smoldering. “I will _not_ share your bed, Knight-Lieutenant,” he grits out.

Ferdinand’s cheeks heat up. “I would never! I will leave the bed to you for the night.”

“ _You_ would sleep on the floor,” Hubert says flatly.

“Yes!” says Ferdinand vehemently. “It would not be much trouble for just one night. I will simply borrow a blanket with which to make myself comfortable on the floor.”

Hubert shakes his head in disbelief. “Unbelievable,” he mutters.

But Ferdinand cannot leave it at that. “I know your inclination is to expect the worst from people, but that will never happen from me,” he insists. “I am a man of my word, Hubert. You should know this by now.”

“You shouldn’t say never,” Hubert warns. “Men are weak. They all fall to temptation one way or another, someday.” When Ferdinand opens his mouth to protest, he continues, “And besides, you still haven’t thought of how much more difficult hiding me will become in the morning.”

That…is a very good point. “Ah,” Ferdinand says, rather eloquently.

“Exactly,” Hubert snaps, his patience clearly at an end. “Now get out of here.”

He can’t find any further arguments to sway Hubert with, and ultimately, Ferdinand doubts Hubert would be amenable to listening anyways. He bids Hubert a solemn good night and heads back to his quarters.

And if he stays awake for some time longer, on his back and extending a hand towards the ceiling and flexing his fingers, wondering if Hubert is sleeping—well, he can’t help it. It comes to him, suddenly, that he never thanked Hubert for his aid, like some ungrateful brute.

Would Hubert even accept his thanks? Unlikely, but Ferdinand would thank him all the same, although he does seem to appreciate action more. If Ferdinand can expose the smuggling ring, confiscate the unlawful lyrium and rid the Circle of corruption—perhaps that will suffice.

He will have so much work to do when dawn comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: What goes up must come down.
> 
> [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


	8. Act 1 Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nine days late, we're finally here! Very sorry for the wait, but very thankful for your patience. We're at the penultimate Act 1 chapter!

Ferdinand sleeps in so late he nearly misses breakfast.

He scrambles to make it to the dining hall before the Templars’ window closes. His hair ends up tied in a disaster of a tail, loose strands sticking out at all ends, and he does not have time to check that he’s adorned matching socks.

Pam and Joanne exchange hearty chortles as they watch him scarf down a bowl of porridge, and even though they’ve just finished eating themselves, they remain with him for company—or, more likely, entertainment. All the better for Ferdinand, really. This way he’ll be able to talk to them once he’s put some sustenance into his body.

“I have a question for you, if you do not mind,” Ferdinand says as they exit the hall together once he’s done.

“Shoot,” they say in unison.

Before sleep finally took him last night, he’d determined an appropriate angle so as not to generate suspicion. “I’ve noticed there are not many redheads among the Templars,” he starts. “There’s myself, and I think a Knight-Corporal? I am not sure, and I was curious as to our numbers.”

Pam bursts into peals of laughter, while Joanne hides hers behind a cough. “You are hilarious,” Pam giggles. “Need to compare and make sure you’re the fairest ginger in Tantervale?”

“Of course not,” Ferdinand protests. “I was just curious.”

“Sure, sure.”

Joanne says, “Well, it’s just you and Victor, as far as I’m aware.”

“Perfect!” Ferdinand exclaims in delight, and promptly realizes what he’s just implied.

Both women raise skeptical eyebrows at him.

“I just like having the information!” he insists, but then they’re laughing at him, and he supposes a breakthrough in his research is worth a little embarrassment.

Knight-Lieutenant Sabrina and Knight-Corporal Victor. With these names, Ferdinand has now identified all participants in the smuggling ring.

Knight-Commander Rhea will be so pleased.

There’s no time to speak with her before his next patrol, so Ferdinand skips lunch in favor of meeting with her, figuring he can catch the tail end of the midday meal when he’s done. When he reaches the top floor, however, the Knight-Commander’s office door is closed, so he knocks.

“Who is it?” Knight-Commander Rhea’s voice comes muted through the door.

“Knight-Lieutenant Ferdinand von Aegir with a report for you, Knight-Commander,” Ferdinand replies dutifully.

There’s a pause. “I am currently with someone, but I will see you when I am done. Wait here.”

“Yes, Knight-Commander.”

Ferdinand stands by the wall next to the door, maintaining an impeccable posture should the door open at any moment. Except five minutes go by, then ten, then thirty. He ends up slouching against the wall, unbecomingly straining an ear towards the door to try to get an inkling of what’s going on in there. He can hear muffled voices, but he’s unable to make out any of the words.

He’s deliberating sinking into a sitting position and is about to slide down the wall to do so when there’s a click and the door opens. Ferdinand jolts upright and pulls a salute when Knight-Captain Marco walks past. He inclines his head briefly at Ferdinand and then continues on his way, leaving the door ajar behind him.

Knight-Commander Rhea is seated at her desk, rubbing at one of her temples when Ferdinand takes a hesitant step into the doorway.

“May I come in?” he asks.

She beckons with the hand not at her head, her delicate features marred by apparent weariness, or frustration, or a combination of the two. Ferdinand enters and closes the door behind him.

Tentatively, he says, “I have uncovered the identities of all Templars involved in the smuggling ring.”

Knight-Commander Rhea exhales in a puff of irritation, and Ferdinand cannot comprehend why. He is bringing her excellent news! Did her meeting with Knight-Captain Marco somehow sour her entire day?

“Present your evidence,” she sighs.

Ferdinand bites his lip over an inquiry as to her wellbeing. He knows Hubert would lash out if he coddled him, and his Knight-Commander strikes him as someone who is much the same. In that light, anyways.

He takes a deep breath, centers himself, and launches into an explanation of last night’s stakeout. He provides the most detailed account possible without any indication that he was not alone. Hubert helped him at great personal risk; Ferdinand shudders to think of what might happen if he was discovered out past curfew, regardless of whether or not he was aiding a Templar’s noble endeavor.

Lastly, Ferdinand reads to her the contents of the new note. “So you see,” he concludes, “these two must be the final culprits. But this also sheds light upon the potential location of the smuggled lyrium. Were former Knight-Lieutenant Brenden’s quarters searched when he was dismissed?”

Knight-Commander Rhea nods tiredly. “Nothing out of the ordinary was found,” she says, her voice clipped. “You will have to search elsewhere.”

“Perhaps we should question Knight-Lieutenant Sabrina and Knight-Corporal Victor for further information,” he suggests. “At this point, we have ample reason to believe they will have no one else to run to, so if they are both detained, we can interrogate them further.”

Knight-Commander Rhea’s eyes narrow. “That is outside of your jurisdiction, Knight-Lieutenant,” she scorns. “You will leave me to deal with them as I see fit, and focus on your own research.”

Ferdinand boggles. “With all due respect, Knight-Commander, their knowledge is vital to my re—”

Her hands slam down on the desk, making him jump. “Do not question me,” she seethes. “You have your task. Find out more about this red lyrium, or renounce your chance at promotion.”

He stares, shocked by this display of anger, especially that it might be directed at him, when Ferdinand cannot fathom what he might have done wrong. He forcibly does not gape, and snaps into a salute instead.

“As you wish, Knight-Commander,” he says mechanically.

“Get out.”

Ferdinand cannot get away fast enough.

By the end of the day, Knight-Lieutenant Sabrina and Knight-Corporal Victor are decommissioned and escorted off the premises by all three Knight-Captains. When they’re gone, Ferdinand corners Knight-Captain Aimeric, with whom he is on the best terms, and asks him if he knows of any questioning taking place. Knight-Captain Aimeric responds with a negative before brushing Ferdinand off, grumbling about paperwork to be done.

It all leaves an awful taste in Ferdinand’s mouth, and Hubert’s words echo in his brain: _She is setting you up to fail_. Surely that is not what is transpiring here. Perhaps this is simply the way of things here at Tantervale, and no purposeful slight on Ferdinand’s investigation. Perhaps that is how Knight-Commander Rhea has earned her respect and reputation, by giving no quarter to Templars who have forsaken the Chantry. It corroborates the strict regulations in place for all denizens of Tantervale Circle, the mages and Tranquil included.

It makes Ferdinand a little queasy to contemplate all the same.

More to the point, with all members of the smuggling ring gone and no sign of any of the unlawful red lyrium within the Circle, Ferdinand is left at a loss of what leads to pursue next. The note signaled a source in the city, but how on earth is Ferdinand supposed to ascertain who or where that source may be? He would have to question the whole town, and that would surely blow his cover.

Although there is the option of making a thorough visit to all the citizens of Tantervale, if only to kindly get to know the area better, and see if his body reacts to any traces of lyrium nearby. The lyrium in his blood, obtained from his regular doses, has always tended to gravitate somewhat to sources of magic, and more lyrium is no exception. And that first note had implied that this red lyrium would still sing to those who approached it.

The only alternative he can think of is researching lyrium some more. Perhaps if he were to borrow some of Hubert’s reads on the topic, he might unearth something about the red lyrium.

It feels like such a shot in the dark, but he has to try. Ferdinand resolves to ask Hubert for recommendations next time he sees him.

Naturally, his plans end up interrupted by the next incident.

It’s discovered early the next morning, evidence of illegal nocturnal activities in the library’s western wing, bloodstains painting the carpet, the deflated corpse of a small rodent tucked away in a corner.

It means everyone is gathered into the dining hall at breakfast, and Knight-Commander Rhea gives an animated and furious speech about how the blood mage will be punished for this insolence, and that anyone safely harboring them will meet the same fate.

It’s all the same rhetoric that she has said in the past, but it rings differently this time. Knight-Commander Rhea in a rage is a sight to behold: there is something terrifyingly beautiful when she is like this, as if she unleashes upon the world the wrath of a goddess herself. Ferdinand is enraptured by her as she speaks, even as his insides curdle with the worry that she will hurt too many innocents along the path to victory.

Ultimately, this episode reminds him that the blood mage is still at large. Ferdinand had nearly forgotten, so caught up in his own investigation as he’s been. It triggers consequences he hadn’t previously considered: with the blood magic culprit still on the loose, more interrogations and punishments are doled out. But when Ferdinand volunteers for extra shifts on guard duty in the dungeons, Knight-Commander Rhea vetoes the change in scheduling. He privately requests justification, and she cites his secret project as a higher priority.

“You will be able to uncover more information on patrol rather than in the dungeons,” she claims, and Ferdinand cannot dispute that.

It’s mostly mages from the western wing that are sent into confinement, but Ferdinand can’t help but wonder if the Templars are looking at this all wrong. After all, none of the Templars convening in the southern wing for the smuggling ring had actually been stationed there. It was all a façade to evade suspicion. And besides, the last traces of blood magic had been found in the eastern wing. What if the blood mage is employing a similar strategy here?

That would narrow things down to either the northern or southern wings. Ferdinand wishes he could discuss the matter with Knight-Commander Rhea, but he decides otherwise. She will most likely be irate with him for not focusing on his own work.

Instead, he asks Pam and Joanne if they know which Templars are in charge of the investigation, a sly maneuver Hubert would certainly approve of. They’re quick to confirm that this is Knight-Captain Marco’s jurisdiction.

Oh. That must have been why Knight-Commander Rhea was so upset after her meeting with him the other day; there must have been poor news on the blood magic front.

He locates Knight-Captain Marco in his office.

“May I have a moment of your time, Knight-Captain?” Ferdinand asks at the door.

He receives a grunt of affirmation, so he steps inside. “I wished to aid you in the blood magic investigation, if you would allow it, Ser,” Ferdinand says. “I have some suspicions about the activity that may be of use.”

“I doubt that,” Knight-Captain Marco mutters darkly, “but I’ll give you one minute to try. I have a lot of work to do.”

“I am curious as to where all previous incidents of blood magic have occurred.”

Knight-Captain Marco says gruffly, “None of your business.”

Ferdinand winces internally but presses onwards. “Well, it seems to me from my limited time here that the site is always changing. In my opinion, that corresponds to the culprit’s attempts to mask their usual station, framing innocent mages along the way. Thus, process of elimination would prove the more useful tool in determining—”

“All right, I’ve heard enough,” Knight-Captain Marco snaps. “You’d do well to stop your meddling. Now leave me to my actual work.”

“Will you at least think about—”

“ _Now, Knight-Lieutenant_.”

Ferdinand clamps his mouth shut, salutes stiffly, and goes.

The days go by, and all of the mages in the dungeons are released as anticipated, no proof uncovered as to the identity of the blood mage. Things settle back into their usual routine, but even Ferdinand’s attempts at cheer in the southern wing are insufficient to ease the fog of tension descending upon the Circle.

Unable to do much else, Ferdinand continues to research the source of the strange lyrium. At the end of every week, he takes his free day to go into the city, painstakingly following a map and crossing off each location he visits. The townspeople are all lovely folks, and the less friendly of them do not strike Ferdinand as inherently dubious, just perhaps having a bad day. Through all this, however, he does not sense the presence of any unexpected lyrium. It is such a bustling area that he’s not sure he ever could.

Back in the library, Ferdinand pores through each and every book on lyrium that Hubert recommends, and is dejected to find zero accounts of a red-colored lyrium in any of the library’s records. He learns a lot about the functions of lyrium, complementing his pre-existing knowledge, but absolutely nothing hints at it being anything other than the color blue.

“Say, Hubert?” he says from where his nose is buried in yet another dead end.

He can practically hear Hubert rolling his eyes in response. “What now?”

“I am beginning to think there are no existing records of this red lyrium anywhere.”

“That tends to be the case when the Chantry controls the education of Templars and mages,” Hubert sniffs.

“Hubert, please,” Ferdinand says, not in the mood to deal with Hubert’s brand of sarcasm today. “It has been several months since I first started investigating the smuggling ring. My research is getting me nowhere. If you know something else that can help, I implore you, please enlighten me.”

Hubert is silent for a moment. Then he says, “I am not hiding anything from you on the subject of the red lyrium. I had never heard about it until the emergence of the smuggling ring.”

Ferdinand sighs, running his hands through his hair and trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest. “I do not mean to sound ungrateful. Your assistance has been incredibly valuable to me. I just...” He trails off, his thoughts spiraling off into far-fetched theories again.

This mysterious red lyrium is an incredibly well-kept secret, that much is certain. The question remains as to whether that is because it is a recent discovery, or because it is a forbidden practice.

Speaking of forbidden practices—

“Hubert,” he begins, “when did the blood magic incidences first occur?”

Hubert shrugs. “Couple months before you transferred here, I believe.”

The wheels spin as he shuffles through a mental calendar, those dates listed on the page. “Around the same time the smuggling ring came together?”

He’s expecting a reaction from Hubert at that, but not the way Hubert’s eyes narrow. “What are you getting at?” he asks warily.

“What if the displays of blood magic are actually a side effect of the red lyrium?” Ferdinand explains. Things click together in his head like pieces of a puzzle coming together, and he forges ahead with newfound zeal. “Maybe the two are inexorably tied together. Maybe the red stuff is to lyrium as blood magic is to proper magic use. The latest note suggested that there were no other members of the group left, but what if that was only referring to Templars? What if there are mages involved in the smuggling ring as well, and the red lyrium is fueling their blood magic?”

He finishes on a triumphant note, beaming, but stops when he sees the look on Hubert’s face.

“Blood magic?” Hubert demands incredulously, as if Ferdinand has gone mad. “You think this is linked to blood magic?”

“Well, yes. It is an unnatural and evil source of—”

Hubert pushes abruptly to his feet, his eyes ablaze. “Unnatural and evil?” he repeats, his voice dangerously low, and Ferdinand feels he might smolder under the heat of his glare. “You think your biggest worry of _unnatural and evil_ is blood magic? All magic is blood magic. Look at what you Templars do with lyrium, for fuck’s sake.”

Ferdinand stares back, disbelieving. “Have you forgotten that I dismantled the trade of dirty lyrium within these very walls, with your assistance, and that I am actively researching what might have caused this to prevent it from happening again?”

Hubert scoffs. “I’m not just talking about that. But if you don’t want to work on your hearing and listening abilities, perhaps you’ll at least be amenable to improving your reading.” He strides forward and grabs the quill Ferdinand left on the desk, and hastily jots something across one of his notes. “Take a look at the margins, Knight-Lieutenant. Maybe you’ll learn something. Though at this point I doubt your Chantry-obsessed brain will be able to process it.” And without another word, he stalks angrily out of the aisle.

 _Wait_ dies on Ferdinand’s lips as he watches him go. Part of him thinks Hubert was being horribly unfair, because Ferdinand does not have the slightest clue where or how he went wrong. On the other hand, it’s been becoming increasingly clear that Ferdinand does not understand as much as he thinks he does about anything, really.

Maybe it’s no surprise he still can’t convince Hubert to call him by his name. Maybe he’s still failing as a Templar. If he retired today, could Ferdinand look back on his service and rest in the satisfaction that he had been a good man, a good Templar and devout follower of the Chantry’s generous principles?

What’s so offensive with respecting the Chantry, anyways? In theory, it has set a foundation for the world, where magic could be carefully channeled and all could live in relative safety and peace. In actuality, it has betrayed so many of its mages. The abuses suffered by the mages in Tantervale have proven that the system has fractured in places. Ferdinand has been working to repair those breaks, twist them back into their proper shape, but it hasn’t been enough.

He’s starting to wonder if it will ever be enough.

There’s so much more he needs to do, even if he doesn’t know what it all entails. But he can begin with Hubert’s latest tip.

Right after he reports his suspicions to Knight-Commander Rhea.

~o~

“Absolutely not,” Knight-Commander Rhea says.

Ferdinand blinks. “But why ever not?” he asks. “If the events are linked as suspected, we could uncover the truth behind both issues in one fell swoop! If we can just get a Templar to lure out—”

Knight-Commander Rhea’s expression hardens as she interrupts, “Regardless of what my subordinates may be wrapped up in behind my back, I will never stoop so low as to risk any of their wellbeing in the face of a treacherous blood mage. My people’s lives are at stake here.”

“Your enchanters are your people too, are they not?” Ferdinand argues.

“Pah! They are lesser folk and you know it.” Ferdinand has never seen such disgust on Knight-Commander Rhea’s face; it sullies her features in a particularly ugly manner, gives her an almost feral look to her. Monstrous, even. “They should be grateful we haven’t invoked the Right of Annulment or turned them all Tranquil instead of graciously allowing them to practice their demon-spawn magic in the first place. They do not deserve our kindness.”

Ferdinand wilts under the intensity of her hatred as she rises from her seat to loom over him. “I have just received word from Kirkwall. It seems they have more information on this red lyrium than you were able to uncover.” Her tone reeks of supreme disappointment, and Ferdinand’s stomach lurches. “What do you have to excuse this complete and utter failure, Knight-Lieutenant?”

Ferdinand’s limbs are numb, but somehow he manages to stand so that he can bend in a low bow. “My deepest apologies,” he says, his voice small. “I will endeavor to be better.”

“I will not tolerate this subpar performance for much longer,” she informs him. “Change is on the rise, if word from Kirkwall is any indication. Soon, we shall truly see if you will sink or swim.” Her eyes glint threateningly. “Now get out of my sight.”

~o~

Ferdinand curls in bed that night, wallowing in his misery. He’d tried so hard to appease both the mages and his superiors, and in the end he’d failed entirely. Perhaps it was an impossible task; perhaps the two could never be reconciled.

That was unacceptable. For why could the Chantry forsake any life, choose one over another? Magic may be inviting perilous forces into play, but mages did not choose for this power to befall them. How could anyone fault them for circumstances out of their control?

Knight-Commander Rhea certainly did, and she’d governed Tantervale Circle to emulate that. Maker, and Nichelle had even warned him from the start, hadn’t she? _Carry on as you intend, and you’ll be eaten alive_. The Knight-Commander had created an environment where it was futile to fight her iron will. Ferdinand should have heeded those counsels as they’d come. Now, all he has left is one last possible lead that he won’t even be able to do anything with.

Well. Perhaps that is speaking a little soon rashly. Even though Ferdinand’s insides are hollow, he acknowledges that in all this, he has lacked understanding. And the only way he can ever have a prayer of being better is to learn, like Hubert said.

So Ferdinand reads. His eyelids grow heavy and droop, but he stays up most of the night searching through the recommended text. It’s a history of lyrium mining, which isn’t really anything new to Ferdinand—he’s researched this before, fascinated by the means the Chantry employs to grant its Templars their regulatory powers over errant magic—but the scribblings in the margins are. The text is old, and the scrawl is faded as well, tight and so minuscule that Ferdinand has to practically hold the pages up against his nose to read them properly.

As he reads, he realizes that maybe that was the point, to make it such that most passing eyes would simply write off the ramblings as such, and pay them no mind. A massive stroke of luck that this slipped under Knight-Commander Rhea’s notice.

For somewhere in those margins, when Ferdinand looks hard enough, are two incriminating comments:

 _Titans’ blood?_ and, many pages later, _Addictive and degenerative_.

In the earliest hours of the morning, Ferdinand’s blood runs cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, the Act 1 finale: Plans are in motion, and Ferdinand must make a life-changing choice.
> 
> [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


	9. Act 1 Chapter 9

Morning comes far too quickly. Ferdinand feels as though his body and mind have both been trampled over by an army of mabari warhounds with how little he slept after taking in the information Hubert had steered him towards.

There is no proper research to document or validate these claims. And yet, Ferdinand cannot help but be compelled to trust in their verity.

It is possible there are accounts aside from this anonymous scholar’s, if he can dig up records on retired Templars, perhaps. Do they even continue taking lyrium after they’ve concluded their years of service? Ferdinand has never considered such a thing before. He’s never wondered what might happen to him if he stops taking it, past the loss of ability to suppress magic. Would he…

He rubs at his burning eyes with the heel of his palm, and that’s when the bell sounds in the hall.

It takes Ferdinand a moment to realize this is not one of the mealtime bells—it’s calling for an important announcement.

A voice calls out from the hallway; it’s Knight-Captain Aimeric. “All Knight-Lieutenants, report to the dining hall at once! I repeat, all Knight-Lieutenants, report to the dining hall at once!”

Just Knight-Lieutenants? Ferdinand can’t make any sense of it in his bleary state. He stumbles into his armor with barely any care for his hair, strewn and tangled as it is. He runs a hand through it in a hopeless attempt at taming it anyways, and once he is fully armed, he heads out the door.

Knight-Commander Rhea is waiting at the end of the dining hall as the Knight-Lieutenants pour in. Ferdinand is at least thankful to note that some seem to be in much worse disarray than he is. Pam and Joanne look particularly frazzled.

“Thank you for coming here on such short notice,” Knight-Commander Rhea says when everyone is present. “I do not normally wish to do this, but we must act fast. The threat of the blood mage within our midst is too dangerous to ignore after discovering further evidence of deception. We have determined that the blood mage has been concealing their atrocities through the use of Misdirection. The culprit is highly skilled in Hex magic, and we can waste time no longer. We must act now before something terrible happens.

“The announcement is already being given to the mages as I speak. We have prepared a list of all mages specializing in Entropy. I ask of you to volunteer yourselves to collect these mages, one at a time, and bring them to the Trial Room. They will be given an opportunity to come forth with the truth. However, if none confess, we shall invoke the Rite of Tranquility on each and every one of them so that we may swiftly and conclusively eliminate the threat.”

The more Ferdinand listens, the deeper the dread roots itself in him, seeping through his bones and weakening them to the brittleness that precedes shattering. Misdirection. Hexes. The perfect opportunity to craft a handy alibi. It was right under his nose this entire time, and he’d been played for a fool.

He has to get to Hubert first.

When Knight-Commander Rhea finishes her speech and orders, Ferdinand’s body moves of its own accord. He is barely aware of himself insisting that he shall be the one to escort Hubert, but the role is accepted for him and he is weaving through the narrow, enclosed halls of the mages’ quarters and knocking on what’s labeled as Hubert’s door before he knows it.

He doesn’t wait to be acknowledged. Drawing on his power, readying a Smite if needed, he pushes the door open and steps into the room.

Hubert is sitting on a little cot in the corner. In fact, everything here is tiny. There is barely any place to walk. There’s a nightstand next to the cot with one drawer. No windows. The only light from one sconce on the wall that Ferdinand knows is controlled by the Templars here to turn off after hours. And yet, the horror of discovering the true living conditions of the mages here is numbed in the face of the person Ferdinand had thought he knew, gazing at him now with a resigned expression on his face.

Ferdinand never thought he would witness something like this.

For a moment, neither of them speaks, simply looking at each other. Neither of them moves.

Hubert is the one to break the silence. “So you’re to be my keeper, then. How ironic.” It comes out completely flat.

“I have to know,” Ferdinand says. He feels like he will fly apart at the seams if he doesn’t. “Misdirection and illusionary spells to hide the evidence. Then, you get on some Templar’s nerves and earn yourself a trip to the dungeons so that by the time the spells wear off, they cannot accuse you.”

“Very astute of you,” Hubert replies coolly. “Let me guess: you believe that now all that’s left is to turn me in, make a harmless Tranquil servant of me, and earn your long-awaited promotion.”

It stings so much fiercer than Ferdinand could have ever imagined, and he clenches his fists at his sides. “I do not know _what_ to believe, Hubert! You were not exaggerating when you made those claims of horrific abuse here. You helped me garner information on the smuggling ring. You came to the library with me that night, and then after I left, you—a few days later they found—” Something pulled taut within him snaps. “I defended you, all this time! And for what? Tell me the truth. Are you the blood mage?”

Hubert chuckles darkly. “It doesn’t matter what I tell you,” he says. “You’ve already made up your mind.” He stands from the cot and holds his hands out together, obviously awaiting to be shackled. “Might as well get this over with.”

Ferdinand huffs in exasperation. “I am trying to keep you safe!” he tries.

Now Hubert’s laughter barks out of him, reverting to his usual sneer at last. “Safe?” he asks snidely. “Oh, of course. Safe and compliant and unable to think for myself. A perfect little Tranquil. Perhaps then you’ll finally have your way with me, when I can do nothing but obey.”

“That is not—”

Hubert snarls, “I would rather die than be made Tranquil,” and Ferdinand freezes in place, struck dumb by the flood of emotion in his voice. “You’ve been brainwashed to think it’s such a lovely way to live. No connection to the Fade, no more demons to sway you. You never stopped to think that it destroys your free will, did you? All Tranquil are slaves.”

Ferdinand stares. Thinks back to Peter. He can hardly breathe.

Still, Hubert forges on, relentless in his fury. “Did you know some of those unlucky bastards have had the misfortune of encroaching upon a powerful magic ritual? When they get too close to the pull of the Fade and the connection can be pieced back together. I saw it happen, once. The poor soul begged me to kill him rather than let him be made Tranquil again.”

The question hangs so heavy in the air. Ferdinand has not the voice, nor the heart, to seek confirmation.

Hubert wouldn’t give it to him anyways. Ferdinand has done nothing to deserve it.

A voice calls from the halls. “Is that everyone rounded up?”

They lock eyes once more. Hubert’s face has relaxed back into stone, heedless of the plea that Ferdinand knows is showing on his own, of the gooseflesh crawling up his arms, of how violently he’s trembling, like a soldier about to fight their very first battle and thrust headfirst into war.

Finally, Ferdinand retrieves the cuffs. Moves mechanically to clink them around Hubert’s wrists, pulls on the chain to drag him out of the room. Hubert follows soundlessly without struggle. There are more Templars in the hallway, keeping the coast clear, and Ferdinand senses the power stemming from them, the threat of the lyrium song whistling through the air. Ready to Smite at any instant.

“That will not be necessary,” Ferdinand tells them tiredly. “He will not resist.”

Hubert looks like he will do exactly the opposite, just to irk Ferdinand, just to goad him into an argument one last time. But he doesn’t, and they slip alone into the stairwell to the Trial Room.

“Thank you,” Ferdinand says quietly, “and I am sorry. But I cannot allow any threat to a single person in this establishment.”

Hubert returns, equally soft, but so much more venomous, “Then why are you here?”

Ferdinand doesn’t have an answer to that.

Because he doesn’t know anymore. He came to Tantervale seeking to fill the vacant slot for Knight-Captaincy. He came here to prove himself a worthy Templar. But what is a worthy Templar? Could he go back to Ansburg and be fulfilled with the knowledge that no threats exist to any Circle dweller? He can’t. There is no keeping both the Templars and the mages safe. Not here, possibly not anywhere. And Hubert has lied to him, cheated his way through crimes of—but what crimes, if the research corroborates it, that all magic is blood magic, that lyrium is simply another conduit for such atrocities? If the Chantry teaches that magic is a sin, are all Templars sinners too?

What is the Truth?

Ferdinand bites back a sob. He is only sure of one thing right now, and that is that he hates all of this so, so much.

They are the last to arrive at the Trial Room. It is a circular room, with a full guard of Templars along the walls, and Knight-Commander Rhea stands in full regalia on a dais in the middle. Facing her are a group of enchanters, all huddled close, a massive bundle of nerves. Their eyes dart around; their shoulders hunch in on themselves. Their faces are pale and terrified. Their wrists are all bound. And Ferdinand recognizes some of them. Darren, others he’d spent time with in the dungeons, even some of his own charges from the southern wing. Bile rises in his throat and he nearly chokes on it.

His mind blank, Ferdinand leads Hubert to join them. He cannot bear to face him now, and once that’s done, he takes guard in the empty space between two other Knight-Lieutenants along the wall.

Knight-Commander Rhea displays no hint of reaction. Her attention is fully focused on the mages.

“Let us begin.

“You all know why you have been gathered here. Blood magic is an act of pure evil that cannot be tolerated. You are all suspects, highly at risk of demonic corruption in the use of such methods. As such, your minds and bodies must be cleansed of this foul influence via the Rite of Tranquility.

“However,” and here, Knight-Commander Rhea makes eye contact with each mage, one by one, “I can be merciful. If the person or persons responsible for the atrocities that have threatened the safety of all present in this Circle comes forward now, I may be persuaded to spare the others and graciously grant them a second chance to prove that they will not engage in such atrocities themselves. I will only ask once.” Her voice hardens, radiating power and command. “Who is the blood mage in our midst?”

No one answers.

Ferdinand stares at the mages. At Hubert. Who glares at Rhea with tangible loathing, but does not speak out.

Now, Ferdinand suspects he might know one of two things: that either Hubert is not actually the blood mage, and has nothing to reveal; or, that Hubert is truly the blood mage, and is willing to risk everyone and everything to prove a point.

_I would rather die than be made Tranquil_ , he’d said.

Knight-Commander Rhea does not appear dissatisfied at the lack of confessions. Instead, she grins broadly, lights dancing across her eyes. “Very well then,” she purrs, and it curdles horribly in Ferdinand’s gut. “Then I will hereby invoke the Rite of Tranquility. The brand, please.”

One of the Templars across the room from Ferdinand advances with a rectangular case in his arms. He kneels before Knight-Commander Rhea in the center of the room, opening the box to expose a smooth bar, longer than a wand but shorter than a staff, the emblem of a flaming sun at its tip. The Chantry symbol of purity.

“Thank you.” Knight-Commander Rhea’s head swivels as she observes the room. Her eyes land directly on Ferdinand, the weight of her piercing gaze turning his limbs to lead as her smile sweetens sickeningly. “Knight-Lieutenant, you have sought to prove yourself amongst your peers. Do so now and wield the brand for me.”

Ferdinand’s breath catches, his heart leaping up to his throat. Every throb of his pulse thunders between his ears as the magnitude of what his Knight-Commander is requiring of him sets in.

Brand the mages. Save them from themselves.

Turn them all into mindless puppets.

The brand glows blue, singing to his lifeblood, calling him to action. It is power he can harness. Power that can finally secure him the promotion he’s always wanted.

Ferdinand swallows thickly. He knows what he wants now, but. But.

He takes one heavy step forward, then another. His veins are on fire; he thinks the flames might burst from him and engulf the entire room. But he can’t back out now. He must steel himself for what must be done.

Without meaning to, his eyes flicker to Hubert. He reads so many emotions under that sullen façade, from revulsion to betrayal to pure disappointment. _I would rather die than be made Tranquil_ , and Ferdinand has no doubt he will fight tooth and nail to seal his fate by his own terms. He looks back to Knight-Commander Rhea, nauseated by how supremely pleased she appears. The delight she takes in this ritual, something that should have been a solemn mercy.

He reaches the center of the room, the music ringing shrilly in his ears. When he extends a grasping hand to close upon the shaft, potent magical energy surges through him, followed by an unexpected wash of peace.

Knight-Commander Rhea smiles and nods approvingly. “Very good, Knight-Lieutenant. You may choose who shall be the first recipient of the Rite of Tranquility.”

Ferdinand sidesteps, keeping her in his line of sight, but able to look down on the mages from the dais as well. Even though he’s made his choice, he will never be fully ready for it.

“You,” he says softly.

Hubert eyes him warily, but steps out of the group to the foot of the dais. Ferdinand makes no move to approach, but keeps his gaze fixated on Hubert’s—even if he doesn’t know what his own expression conveys.

Ferdinand doesn’t know if this is the right thing, but he knows for sure what’s wrong.

“I will not.”

A hush descends over the room. Hubert blinks.

Knight-Commander Rhea chuckles. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I must have misheard you.” Her voice sharpens dangerously. “What did you say?”

From the corners of his vision, Ferdinand confirms she has not yet moved. He grips the brand tightly at his side, the glowing tip pointing at the ground. Still watching Hubert, with all the conviction he can muster, Ferdinand says, louder this time: “I will not allow any harm to fall upon my charges. This practice is unequivocally wrong. I will have no part in it, and I will not stand for anyone else to.”

Hubert stares at Ferdinand like he’s seeing him for the first time. Like it’s too good to be true.

Ferdinand wrenches his focus away from him to Knight-Commander Rhea, whose features twist into unadulterated rage.

“How dare you,” she growls, and in a flash of steel she draws her blade. “You will pay for your insol— _guh_!”

But before she can utter another word, her body abruptly seizes. She cries out in pain, gasping as her body spasms on the spot. All around them, the room fills with howls of agony and thumping impacts.

Ferdinand whirls around, eyes widening in horror as every single Templar in the room except him is suddenly incapacitated, crumpled and twitching on the floor. The mages clutch each other in fear of their own, all of their eyes on Hubert.

Hubert, who is bleeding from gashes through his sleeves in both arms, shackles broken, hands outstretched as twin daggers slip from his grip and clatter to the floor, eyes narrowed in bitter concentration as he rends all obstacles obsolete.

And yet, all Ferdinand can manage to say is, “So I was right, then.”

Hubert is panting from exertion when he snaps, “What’s your point?”

Ferdinand shakes his head. Everything here is wrong. And this will never be enough to make it right.

“You spared me,” he says, a little disbelieving.

“I did,” Hubert grunts. Knight-Commander Rhea’s body shudders violently as she attempts to swing her sword, but she shrieks as Hubert’s magic brings her to her knees, his blood flowing freely down to his wrists. His face has grown steadily paler in such a brief amount of time. He says, “Was that a mistake?”

“How long will this last once you stop?” asks Ferdinand.

“Ten minutes at most.”

“Then we must move fast.” Ferdinand turns to the other mages. “Tantervale is no longer safe for any of you. Please, follow me out of here, and quickly.” He glances back at Hubert. “Can you take the rear for now?” Hubert nods, and Ferdinand takes a deep breath to brace himself.

“All right. This way!”

And he sprints out the door, the rest of the enchanters right at his heels.

They rush through the stairwell, where there are blessedly no Templars to get in their way. Once they reach the main landing, though, Ferdinand slows down. They can play this cool, perhaps. Only those upstairs know what has just transpired. For all the Templars down here know, the Rite was successfully performed on the culprit at last, and he is escorting the remaining mages…somewhere.

Except that he’s still holding onto the brand. Ferdinand hastily drops it down the final set of stairs that lead to the dungeons before exiting; the clang echoes jarringly in his ears.

He guides the mages around back, to a lesser used passage that can take them outside of the Circle. Some of the Templars walk past and nod; others throw him strange looks, but say nothing. Ferdinand sucks a breath through his teeth as they traverse the final, deserted hallway. They are almost there. This is actually working. Soon they will all be—

“Stop right there, Knight-Lieutenant.”

Ferdinand halts in his tracks as he finds himself face to face with Knight-Captain Aimeric and his glinting sword.

He doesn’t dare take his eyes off a Knight-Captain; he knows the mages are close behind him, grouped together as if to shield one another. Ridiculously, he thinks he can make out Hubert’s breathing in specific. Labored, and tapped of most of his abilities. Probably still bleeding. He will need to be treated for that.

“We need to pass through, Ser,” Ferdinand says quietly but firmly.

Knight-Captain Aimeric’s grip tightens on his sword. “You are all hereby marked as traitors,” he declares. “Attempt to escape, and I will not hesitate to cut you down.”

Ferdinand feels the hum of magic in the air behind him—no different from a Misdirection Hex, in the end—and the answering call of the Smite pooling in the Knight-Captain’s free hand.

He draws his sword in rebuttal. “They will not engage,” he says clearly, desperately willing Hubert to heed his words. “They will leave this place, and you will not stop them.”

Then he charges.

Metal screeches against metal as their swords clash; Ferdinand traps him in place under the weight of his strike. He shouts, “Go, now!”

Footsteps thunder across the ground all around him. Knight-Captain Aimeric shoves away to lash out at the absconding mages, but Ferdinand blocks him with a swift counter. He plants his body in between Knight-Captain Aimeric’s and the mages, watching as they scurry past them. Keeps a mental note in his head as he continues his diversion, relief coursing through him once all mages have been accounted for.

But he cannot let up yet. If he retreats here with them, Knight-Captain Aimeric will surely summon aid. Which means eliminating him is the only option.

One of his own. The thought rings hollow. But no—Ferdinand was never one of them, in the end.

Hubert is the last mage to leave. Ferdinand can see him running over Knight-Captain Aimeric’s shoulder. At the door, though, Hubert looks back and locks eyes with Ferdinand, and something passes between them. Respect, gratitude, hope—and for a fleeting instant, Ferdinand has the wild notion that Hubert will stay and help.

And then Hubert turns and flees.

It’s not betrayal; it’s understanding. And Ferdinand made this decision knowing full well this would be the most likely result.

He launches on the offensive with renewed resolve. Ferdinand has trained in combat his entire life. He has always prided himself on his lofty aspirations; they ensured he would never be complacent, that there was always a new, higher goal to strive towards, so that he could prove himself worthy of any role, any title.

There was a reason he sought his promotion, and rightfully so: he had long attained the physical prowess of a Knight-Captain.

When it is over, Ferdinand stands over the late Knight-Captain Aimeric’s body and sheathes his bloodied blade, panting hard. But there is no time to mourn, no time to apologize, not when anyone else might come across them. No time to gather his things.

The mages would not have waited for him. Hubert would know not to dawdle. They’d understood each other, here. Ferdinand will have to embark on this new journey alone. A tinge of regret hits him, but it is far less staggering than the thrill that sweeps through him as he runs, one foot in front of the other, down the passageway and out into the open, crisp air and blue skies.

It is time for a fresh start.

End of Act 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely hope you've enjoyed this story so far! See you in the new year for Act 2. 
> 
> [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


	10. Act 2 Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act 2 is finally here! I wrote the entire act in conjunction with the AU Big Bang event, and after today's initial update I will be posting subsequent chapters every other Sunday. 
> 
> Given the events from Act 1, I'm now linking a [map of Thedas](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/77/1d/1a/771d1a48b433dd595d6b23bdc47182a1.jpg) to help anyone orient themselves. For starters, Tantervale is located in the Free Marches. As always, if there's any confusion, especially for folks not so familiar with the universe, please let me know and I'll do my best to clarify!
> 
> For now, let's pick up where we left Ferdinand off...

Alone is not quite how Ferdinand imagined it would be, three days on the run. Three days of getting as far away from Tantervale as possible, of doing all he could to avoid recognition, to make sure there are no Templars at his heels. Momentum had carried him this far, amazingly. It kept his feet sprinting through the city, past the gates of Tantervale proper and out into the open. It brought him to shelter within a brush, where he hastily fumbled out of his armor, relinquishing the flaming Templar sword that once adorned his chest without a second thought.

He kept his sheath and sword, though. He would still need to defend himself—and did so, when he was almost ambushed by bandits on his second day—and it was his armor that was more distinguishable anyways.

It’s a shame he hadn’t had the opportunity to pick up his valuables from his quarters, but is certain if he hadn’t escaped when he had, his heart would not be beating right now. Not after aiding and abetting a blood mage. Not after disobeying Knight-Commander Rhea’s direct orders.

Not his Knight-Commander anymore, at any rate.

So he’d fled with whatever he’d currently had on his person, which was next to nothing. A tiny pouch with four daily doses of lyrium and a couple of spare coins. That much, he kept. He’d worry about the lyrium doses once it was safe to do so.

On his way out of Tantervale, he’d paused at a small old cottage on the outskirts. Approached the kind elderly lady sitting outside and requested to borrow a pair of scissors. Accepted them from her graciously and gave her one of his coins in gratitude.

And then he chopped his hair off.

The lady was aghast at the roughness of the job and, Maker preserve her soul, offered to even the edges, but Ferdinand laughed it off, thanked her, and continued on his way. He couldn’t afford to waste time. He just needed to be slightly less identifiable. A quick haircut was the best he could do for now.

Three days of incessant movement from sunrise to sundown. Three days of traveling off the main roads, through the woods instead, picking a direction at random because he hadn’t had time to acquire a map. He knows the area somewhat, yes, but he doesn’t have time to _think_.

Three days of hunting food in the wilderness, relying on muscle and childhood memory to earn his meals. It has been some time, but Ferdinand has luckily retained his proficiency in that area, at least enough to get by.

Three days sleeping in the dirt and grass, waking up sullied and aching from a night of fitful tossing and turning, the discomfort deep in his bones, all uneven edges and pebbles digging into his flesh as he twisted and tried in vain to find a satisfactory position. Of counting himself lucky despite all this, that the nights were still warm and would be for another month or so.

The nervous energy wears off by the end of the third day. Ferdinand manages to catch a couple of fish from a brook he stumbles across, and roasts them over a campfire, but the moment he’s devoured his meal—this level of activity and constant motion all day has worked up quite the appetite—he feels like he is about to drop like a sack of bricks. He lets himself flop onto his rear, heedless of the pinpricks of twigs and roots beneath him, and stares at the night sky.

Somehow, it hadn’t truly hit him until now. He’d been so focused on moving, and moving forward—but all of that drive is gone, now, and he is powerless to do anything else but look back.

He…really left it all behind, back there. Not just his material possessions. His title, his duty, his _life_. Sure, he hadn’t always been a Templar, but. He’d committed, devoted his life to the Order for the rest of his days.

And now all that’s gone. It seems so far away and yet not, those days at Tantervale. All the warning signs had been there all along, hadn’t they? The sheer number of Tranquil present that Ferdinand rarely came across. The overblown punishments handed out at will to mages for the pettiest of reasons. The lack of care and understanding in facilitating the honing of their craft. The sickening culture that permeated within those walls, permission for each Templar to assault and abuse and dehumanize.

Circles were founded on Chantry doctrine. But what part of those teachings led so many Templars astray like this? Hubert had said it was like that everywhere, that Ansburg must have been a fluke, a little bubble of paradise compared to the real world. Still a bubble, and still restrictive, though.

But what will happen to mages out in the wild? Had he freed those mages only for them to meet a terrible end elsewhere?

Mages spend their lives in Circles, given a purpose and use for their skills, guaranteed—what is _supposed_ to be—a safe space to do so, so that if demons infiltrate their minds, they can be rescued from evil. Quite simply, they don’t know how to survive outside of these boundaries. There are no barriers to temptation.

And yet, there are bandits in these very woods, bandits that Ferdinand himself has fought off. Could one not argue that even the common folk are just as susceptible to temptation, just as capable of destruction?

Destruction has many faces. It can be via magic, or weapons, or simply verbal and physical. Ferdinand has witnessed the latter in his own home, after all. Who is he to say that one form hurts worse than the other?

Well. He’d pegged death as the worst fate, except. _I would rather die than be made Tranquil_ , Hubert had said. And if all Hubert had told him about the Rite of Tranquility was true, then the Chantry has been condemning mages to a fate far worse than death for centuries.

The Chantry has always been leading Templars astray, then.

But striving for the safety and protection of others—that is surely a noble endeavor, is it not? The intent of the Circle was never predicated upon the urge to harm. It was borne from kindness, from selflessness.

That is what Ferdinand has always aimed to be: an altruistic champion of others, a helping hand, a good Templar. But maybe with the way things are now, it is impossible to consider the words _good_ and _Templar_ in the same breath. That intent has skewed so far off the beaten path, distorted into something dark and ugly and cruel. Maybe the entire system needs dismantling, to be pieced back together. Maybe it’s totally unsalvageable.

Ferdinand thinks of Hubert, so full of anger and hatred toward everything the Chantry represents. Maybe there is no reconciling this. He doesn’t know anymore. He’s beginning to wonder if he ever knew anything at all.

He’s presumed to know so much about the cause he served, and look where it led, very nearly ruining the lives of a dozen innocents. One less than a dozen, he almost corrects himself, as his thoughts drift back to Hubert. Is he truly so despicable for using blood magic? A week ago, Ferdinand would have emphatically said yes to that. Now, it’s just another check mark on the list of things he no longer knows.

_All magic is blood magic_. That’s what Hubert had said to him. _Look at what you Templars do with lyrium_. Okay. Ferdinand can do that. The consumption of lyrium, distilled to liquid form, allows oneself to resist and counter magical offenses from mages. But what is magical resistance, if not a form of magic itself? Ferdinand always assumed the Templars’ lyrium-induced abilities functioned fundamentally differently from the mages’. Could it really be all the same? Does imbibing lyrium actually grant Ferdinand the use of magic?

It makes so much sense, now that he’s mulling it over. Mages use lyrium to amplify their magic. Lyrium dust is used in potion making. There is no reason to label some uses as magical and others not. And if lyrium provides a connection to the Fade, from which magic is said to originate, then lyrium must be magical in and of itself as well, no?

But it goes deeper than that, doesn’t it. If Ferdinand acknowledges that using lyrium in any form is using magic, then what exactly is the source? Ferdinand knows two things: one, lyrium is mined from dwarven underground tunnels; and two, the dwarves believe that Titans, ancient beings of which they are descendants, dwell underground as well. _Titan’s blood_ , the mystery scholar had written in the margins of that text on lyrium. It…could be feasible. Despite the lack of research to corroborate it. 

And if that’s true, then—Ferdinand is no better than Hubert. Templars, as a whole, are no better than any singular mage in existence.

Even if it is false—Ferdinand cannot turn back now. He cannot serve a system that inflicts pain and misery on the very people it is sworn to protect. Should never have served it in the first place.

And, as he looks at his pathetic stash of lyrium, he realizes that he soon won’t be a Templar anymore regardless.

What else is he now, if not a Templar?

Another question without an answer. Ferdinand sighs and shakes himself over. No, he _can_ answer this, at least somewhat. He is a man. He is a man who has trained in the arts of combat and defense, even without his lyrium-infused capabilities. He can be a soldier. He can fight for just causes.

If he can find something to fight for.

If he can handle his lyrium problem.

_Addictive and degenerative_. Ferdinand has never met a Templar without lyrium. He has nothing to equate this with, save some beggars on the streets, mad and raving and pleading for drugs as their bodies are ravaged and weakened by their greed. Would a lyrium deficiency do the same? Is this yet another exploit the Chantry propagated upon its loyal servants?

He remembers, suddenly, how exposure to raw lyrium results in sickness and dementia to all except dwarves, who bear a natural resistance to it. Ferdinand has only ever encountered the processed form, and it has never triggered illness or forgetfulness. As far as he knows. But what if the symptoms are all intrinsically linked?

He will have to be careful, then. Ration his doses. Take only a fraction of a dose, draw out the time in between in an attempt to slowly wean himself off. He has heard of people doing this with coffee before. Perhaps it could function similarly.

It’s not much, but it’s a plan for something, which is more than Ferdinand has for anything else.

He lets himself fall onto his back in the dirt, looking up to find the stars obscured by clouds. He is not doing himself any favors here. He needs to figure out his next move.

If he is missing so much information, perhaps information is what he should track. Locate the nearest village, talk to its citizens and ascertain the goings-on. At least then he can receive some idea of when and if to expect a chase from Tantervale, and maybe gain clues as to the mages’ locations, to discover if they are still safe. He desperately hopes they are, that he didn’t release them to their doom.

“Okay,” he says out loud. The clouds shift, and a few stars twinkle into view.

It will have to do for now.

~o~

Over the next few weeks, Ferdinand treks from one town to another, through a small cluster of villages on the way to Hasmal. He’d contemplated going east, towards Starkhaven instead, but just the prospect of inching closer back to Ansburg leaves insects squirming in his belly. No, moving opposite there is best. Away from all that he knows.

The whispered rumors he learns of as he passes through are enough to send a tremor down his spine and waves of nausea through his gut.

“Is it true that an apostate blew up the Kirkwall Chantry?”

“I heard Grand Cleric Elthina was inside when it happened, Maker have mercy on her soul.”

“It seems Knight-Commander Meredith invoked the Right of Annulment at Kirkwall without authorization.”

“—and then the Champion murdered her and left!”

Oh, no…oh no oh no oh no.

While in these towns, Ferdinand gathers details from anyone who will oblige him, and while he knows the hazards of unbased gossip flying about, his instinct screams at him that this must be real. Hadn’t Knight-Commander Rhea said something about trouble brewing in Kirkwall?

She’d implied involvement of that red lyrium, too. All this time, she’d known more than she’d let on, and strung Ferdinand along like a useless, ignorant puppet.

And now what? Knight-Commander Meredith would have seen the murder of all mages had she not been stopped. Was she utilizing this red lyrium to do so? But evidently mages have had enough of the mistreatment, for them to strike back as they had, to such devastating lengths. For a mage to assassinate the Grand Cleric… Was there no avoiding this conflict? Was there no other way?

Once he arrives in Hasmal, Ferdinand obtains veritable sources, horrifyingly confirming the rumors. What’s more, news of what transpired at Kirkwall is spreading like wildfire across the Free Marches, inciting rebellions within other Circles as well.

“And what of Tantervale?” Ferdinand asks immediately. “Is anything happening there?”

His informer nods solemnly. “A Knight-Captain was killed by a gang of blood mages who fled the area,” he says, and Ferdinand cringes. “It’s a right mess there now, Templars and mages going at each other’s throats. I think most mages are trying to fight their way out of there now, but they’ve nowhere to go.”

On impulse, Ferdinand presses for more. “And what of the Knight-Commander? Was the Right of Annulment declared there too?”

The man’s expression turns even grimmer than before. “The Chantry approved it,” he affirms, and Ferdinand’s skin crawls as his stomach sinks. “But the mages are fighting back to get out of there, like I said.”

Ferdinand doesn’t know what to say. There’s misinformation circulating, clearly, if Knight-Captain Aimeric’s death is being blamed on the mages rather than Ferdinand’s. On one hand, this means he is most likely not being pursued, so he will be able to travel in relative peace. On the other, it means even worse injustice against the poor mages there who’d done nothing wrong.

Where were they now, anyways? Had they gotten away safely? Where would they even go?

And what of Hubert, revealed to the others as the blood mage? Would they have ganged up against him because of that? If push came to shove, Ferdinand had no doubt that Hubert would not hesitate to take them out using any methods necessary in order to survive. Did Ferdinand save all of their lives for nothing?

He blinks back to himself to find that the townsman has walked away while Ferdinand was lost in thought. He exhales heavily and searches for the general store.

Ferdinand tries his best to make light conversation with the shopkeeper as he procures supplies with some of the coin he’d pilfered from the bandits that had tried to rob him a week ago. With it, he purchases a tent, a bedroll, rations, and a packsack to carry it all in. The fall weather is almost upon them now, and with it will bring colder winds. He may as well ensure a little more comfort in his journeys if he can.

He secures himself a room at the inn for the night and spends his evening studying a map of Thedas, struggling to determine where to go next. Given the turmoil within the Free Marches, it would be prudent to head elsewhere. Nevarra is a possibility: perhaps he could head south, through Wildervale towards Cumberland and the College of Magi. Ideally, they will be untouched by this disaster, and its dangers will be limited to the Free Marches only. And if not, he could traverse the Imperial Highway to Orlais. He’s always wanted to see Orlais, with its beautiful architecture and formal events.

It’s decided then. Whether it’s Nevarra or Orlais, no one will know the name Ferdinand von Aegir. He will be able to build himself a new life, free of these worries.

Except as he lies in his narrow bed that night, a chill takes him despite the blanket. It starts in his hands, thrums through the rest of his body with an itch that he can’t quite scratch. Despondently, he knows.

He craves lyrium.

He’s been trying to extend his doses, and when he does take it, it’s only one meager sip. One of his four vials has been completely depleted at this point, and he is already near through the next. Originally it was one sip per day, then every two days, then every three. Now, he’s aiming for four. But it’s only the third day, and his body cries for it, despite his resolve to hold out.

Addictive, indeed.

_Addictive and degenerative_.

Lying in bed like this, he wonders if this is a sign that he doesn’t even deserve a second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Amazing no-longer-a-Templar haircut!Ferdie [fanart](https://twitter.com/qschadenfreude/status/1348848302872268801) by Q!!! Look how lovely he is!!
> 
> [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


	11. Act 2 Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's technically Sunday somewhere in the world, and I wanted to get this out there, so here we are. Enjoy!
> 
> I also wanted to give a little heads up for anyone familiar with the DA universe: I am greatly condensing the timeline between the events of DA2 and DAI, so please suspend your disbelief on that front. It's going from a few years to a few months, oops.
> 
> [Map of Thedas](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/77/1d/1a/771d1a48b433dd595d6b23bdc47182a1.jpg)

Ferdinand spends nearly a month traveling alone. In the mornings, he packs his things. He treks south all day, forced to walk given he has insufficient funds to purchase a horse. In the evenings he sets up camp, makes dinner, and sleeps fitfully—only to repeat the entire process again the next day.

It is positively dreary, and Ferdinand cannot find much to entertain himself with. He tries, by admiring the landscape or the wildlife, but ultimately crossing south between Hasmal and Cumberland is rather plain.

The most exciting aspect of his journey is, ironically enough, bandits. Whether on the road or off, bandits seem to lurk at every turn, terrorizing any voyager they can to steal coin and anything else of value. Luckily for Ferdinand and unfortunately for the bandits, he is quite adept at dealing with them.

It helps, then, to stick near the road, and offer protection to any wagon he comes across traveling in the same direction as him. He does not charge them, but he gratefully accepts any kindness they deign to provide: fresh food, merry drink, respite for his weary feet. Ferdinand doubts they’ve ever been this calloused in his life.

Some reject him before he even finishes speaking, rickety wheels squeaking as they roll along past him. It stings, but alas.

For those that do admit him, he proves his merit when bandits hidden in the ravine off road attempt to ambush them. It is trickier, when he has non-combatants and property to guard, but he treats it as training, a way to keep in shape, to keep his skills sharp.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” the young child of a merchant family asks on one such occasion.

“Ah.” Ferdinand struggles to hide an embarrassed blush, as well as to figure out what to say that’s not a lie, nor incriminating, to those wide, expectant eyes. “I trained in a couple of places. It took a lot of hard work to reach this level.”

There. That will suffice.

When the wagon arrives in Wildervale for a pit stop, the merchants explain to him that they will stay one day only before continuing on their way, and that Ferdinand is more than welcome to join them to Cumberland. Ferdinand wants to take them up on that immediately, but he hesitates here, having always intended to reassess things while in this town. They compromise by booking rooms at the same inn for the night, so that Ferdinand can contact them once he’s decided.

It’s a level of graciousness that makes Ferdinand’s chest ache.

He takes the rest of the day to converse with the villagers and seek updates on the current turmoil within the Free Marches. His discoveries confirm his suspicions: the conflict is escalating. Mage rebellions have broken out all across the region, and their influence is spreading even as Circles rally to break them down. It will inevitably extend across all of Thedas, at this rate.

The College of Magi may not be safe, then. Ferdinand dines with the merchant family at the inn that evening and informs them of his plans to remain behind.

The little one’s face falls, and Ferdinand takes a hearty bite of his stew so he doesn’t have to look upon that devastated expression.

“If you change your mind in the morning, the wagon’s got a seat for you,” the father says.

“I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality,” Ferdinand gushes. “For your company as well. Truly, it has been such a balm on my journey.”

“I’m sure you won’t have any issues finding new companions around here.”

Ferdinand glances around; the inn is crowded tonight. There’s a group of humans with one elf at the table next to theirs, all decently equipped for battle based on their armor and weapons—mercenaries, perhaps. Behind them, an old man sits alone in a corner, hunched over his meal, grey-white hairs straggly and possibly touching the contents of his bowl as he mumbles to himself. Across from Ferdinand, a couple gazes at each other fondly as they eat, radiating romance.

No one present strikes Ferdinand as the kind of crowd he could feasibly insert himself with. Apart from the adventuring party, it would be horrible manners to inject himself uninvited in anyone’s space. And, well. Perhaps Ferdinand could live a thrilling life as a mercenary, but with the state of things as they are, the risk of that sort of work would bring him either too close to the Templars or worse, hunting mages. Neither are veritable options for him.

He smiles and laughs off the faulty assumption anyways. It is pointless to impart his trepidation onto them when they are only gifting him compassion.

If there is one bright spot in all this, it is that he can take a few extra days to determine his next course of action, spend a few nights in a proper bed. His back has begun to irritate him, and having an actual mattress to sleep upon will do him good.

When he parts ways with the family to retire to their rooms for the night, it’s with a heavy heart that he internally berates himself for. He hasn’t even been with them long; there is no reason for him to be so verklempt. It’s not like they have formed proper bonds.

If Hubert were here, he would scoff at Ferdinand for such sentimentality, and cite survival as the utmost priority. Maybe he is right, but what is the point of survival if it perpetuates a cycle of selfishness, inflicts pain on others?

He shakes his head violently as if that could clear it. This is all a gross exaggeration. Ferdinand’s interactions with the merchant family have been utterly harmless either way. Evidently he needs his rest, lest his brain’s wild machinations run rampant.

Not for the first time—not by far—he wonders if this is a side effect of the reduced lyrium. He’s now waiting five days between each meager dose, but while the lack of it is not painful per se, it is wholly uncomfortable in other ways. He itches, he loses circulation in his fingertips and toes, he trembles—all without cause, at random times of the day. The family he’d escorted here couldn’t tell, but Ferdinand was certain his reflexes were too sluggish when he was defending them from bandits.

He’d defended them all the same. Perhaps it is all in his head.

Another shake, accompanied by wringing hands and waggling fingers, and if this could flush the bad thoughts out. “This argument is completely circular,” he says, as if speaking the words into existence will make them ring their truth more fiercely, more believably. “I will sleep on it, and my mind will be sharper in the morning.”

He just needs to repeat it enough times to make it reality.

~o~

Ferdinand sleeps all the way through morning, and wakes with the sun high in the sky. While crestfallen that he’d missed the opportunity to see the merchants off, he cannot deny that he needed such a satisfyingly lengthy slumber.

He heads downstairs to grab a bite to eat. The inn is less bustling at lunchtime than it is for supper, though he recognizes a few faces from last night, like the old man in the corner, this time bent over a pint of ale. Ferdinand has never understood the inclination for drink at midday hours, but he supposes to each their own.

“Would you like a pint as well, serrah?” the barkeep asks, and Ferdinand startles.

“Oh, no thank you,” he says a tad too loud, hurriedly tearing his eyes away, cheeks heating up at being caught staring. “Just a pitcher of water would be wonderful.”

“Coming right up,” the barkeep responds, moving to fulfill the request, and that is when the old man speaks.

“There are apostates among the refugees,” he wheezes, and Ferdinand’s blood runs cold.

“Excuse me?” Ferdinand says.

The old man lifts his head from the table, but he does not turn towards the sound of Ferdinand’s voice. His eyes are a pale blue, beady and unfocused. “They cannot stay with the others,” he says, his voice like a weak whistle through tin pipes.

Ferdinand’s pulse roars to life in his ears as something seizes in his ribcage. “Where are they currently?” he asks carefully. If this man has a lead—if the mages are in danger here—

“Here!” the man answers, reedy and insistent. “They’re all around you and you don’t even know!”

“All around—”

“You shouldn’t pay him any mind,” the barkeep says, low and directly into Ferdinand’s ear. Ferdinand blinks as the barkeep sets the promised pitcher onto the table. “Old Mathias suffers from memory loss. He keeps thinking it’s the middle of the Fifth Blight again, back when all the Ferelden refugees came our way.”

The vice grip on his chest loosens, and Ferdinand’s shoulders relax from where they’d been unconsciously tensed. It was nothing after all. No one here knows anything about the runaway mages’ whereabouts. They’re probably avoiding cities and towns anyways; Hubert would know to do so, cunning as he is. Of course they’re not here.

There is no rationale for his disappointment that it isn’t real.

“Oy,” Mathias calls. “Can you give me some more—”

“You don’t need more,” the barkeep replies readily. “And you’ve got a pint in front of you. Drink that.”

Mathias’ brow furrows in confusion, but he curls over his drink once more, muttering to himself.

“I am sorry about this,” Ferdinand says quietly. “I hope he doesn’t cause you too much trouble.”

“Nah,” the barkeep says breezily. “We’re adept at ignoring his ramblings here. And I can’t complain about his patronage.”

Ferdinand chuckles politely as he is left to his devices, and then he tries to ignore that voice just out of earshot and establish what to do with his afternoon.

He ends up taking a long walk that charts the entire village. Like this, his leg muscles won’t stiffen from neglect, and there are scant traces of clouds in the sky, so it is a beautiful day to simply enjoy the area. Maker knows he has not had the chance for leisure like this in quite some time. It benefits him to take a day off, he realizes, especially since he can afford to do so. And even though he does not have any companions today, he is constantly surrounded by people going about their daily lives, and the proximity is invigorating in its own right.

It’s much of the same at dinner. The mercenaries are back, boasting about their newest job that will take them towards Kirkwall while Ferdinand shudders at the mention. Mathias does not appear to have moved from his corner since lunch. A dwarf enters alongside a Qunari—Tal-Vashoth, must be—and joins up with a couple of humans who seem annoyed to have been kept waiting. It’s lively, so even though no one sits at Ferdinand’s table, it’s easy to pick up on bits of ambient conversation and mentally feign inclusion.

He resolves, then, to make tomorrow his last full day in Wildervale. One more day, then one more night to sleep in a real bed. He can resume his travels the day after.

He hasn’t even done much today, but exhaustion takes him as soon as his head hits the pillow. This time, at least, he rises at a more reasonable hour. He orders breakfast, goes for a brisk jog around the village outskirts, bathes himself back at the inn, then settles downstairs for lunch.

With a map of Thedas spread across the free space at his table, he sketches a path cutting southwest to veer off the main roads, effectively skipping Cumberland en route to the Imperial Highway. It’s the most direct, if not a strictly safe, option. There will be no passing wagons to enlist aid from, but bandits do not frighten him so long as he can maintain his strength, though that has become more worrisome the longer he goes without—

“Lyrium,” Mathias’ voice rattles in Ferdinand’s ears. “I need more lyrium.”

Ferdinand’s quill punches a hole in the map before he’s even processed the words, and then their meaning washes over him like a bucket of ice.

The barkeep pivots from where he was about to bring Ferdinand his plate to address the old man. “You’ve already had some today, remember? Drink your ale instead. You’ll get more tomorrow.”

It is as if Ferdinand is speaking from outside his own body when the barkeep delivers his meal. “What did he mean, he needs more lyrium?”

“Well, he used to be a Templar at Tantervale Circle, but he retired here not long after the Blight ended,” the barkeep explains. “Got a nice deal for it from the Chantry for his service. And I told you he’s got memory issues, yeah? He loses track of his doses. Just gotta remind him and it’s all good.”

Ferdinand’s throat constricts; his body has numbed over with oppressive dread. “I never knew it was like this,” he whispers.

_Addictive and degenerative_. That hadn’t been about the withdrawal at all.

The answers had been in front of him this whole time; he was just incapable of putting the pieces together. Handling raw lyrium can result in deterioration of the mind. If one were to consume even the distilled form for years upon years, of course that would constitute excessive exposure.

This is what awaits Templars. This is their reward for selflessly devoting their lives to the Chantry: they lose their very selves in truth.

_I would rather die than be made Tranquil_ , Hubert had said. Suddenly, Ferdinand genuinely understands exactly how he feels. Looking at Mathias, the ghost of everything he never wishes to become…

He has to stop here. Once he’s weaned himself off his pathetic little stash, only one and a half doses left… Even if he doesn’t want to contemplate what will happen to him when he finally runs out. Even if his strength has been fading more each day.

And if casting off this lyrium leash proves fatal, at least Ferdinand will know that he was still himself at the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


	12. Act 2 Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm still riding that "it's technically Sunday somewhere in the world" train to post this. I've been really excited to get this one out, so I hope you like it!
> 
> CW: fantasy violence, blood/wound mentions.

The journey southwest of Wildervale is, thankfully, a little more vibrant. There are more trees, and with them, a new variety of flora and fauna. It is such a relief to hear the birds singing throughout the day and to whistle along with them. Like this, Ferdinand can almost pretend he is talking to them.

It leaves him optimistic that extending his time between doses to six days will be successful.

On the fifth day since his last sip of lyrium, Ferdinand catches a strange scent on the breeze. It’s faintly smoky, and he has to strain to make it out, but once it clicks it is impossible to ignore:

There is a campfire nearby.

He’s not sure who it might belong to, be it other travelers or worse, bandits, so discretion is key. He treads slowly through the trees and follows the smell, careful not to step on any twigs.

There’s a rustling noise somewhere to his left.

It’s all the warning he gets before four figures leap from behind the trees at him.

Ferdinand’s feet move on instinct as he’s assaulted from all sides. He drops into a roll out of the shell they’re attempting to trap him into, drawing his sword as he straightens, and finds himself directly in front of a fifth bandit, leering and swinging down.

The axe sinks into his left shoulder as Ferdinand parries far too late. Searing pain shoots through him and he flinches, barely able to maintain his grip with that hand on his sword. He can wield it solely in his right, but against heavy hitters like these axe men, it will make things complicated. That, and the agony of the cut, too deep to neglect treating.

He shouldn’t have held out so long until the next dose, shouldn’t have tried to delay the time in between. It’s right there in his pouch, but he cannot reach for it now, not in the throes of combat. He will have to fight severely handicapped: weakened, reflexes muddled, less power in his strikes. It’s an utter failure that he’s sustained such a grievous injury at the very start of battle, that he guaranteed he would not come out of this altercation with the bandits unscathed.

As he twists away, the axe wrenches out of him, rearing back for another attack even as a second bandit approaches from the corner of his periphery.

Ferdinand scarcely dodges in time, wincing through the movement, but he will not let these bandits fell him so easily. They are only five, and they have not a soldier’s training. He may be outmatched in muscle, but even in this state he can be faster than them. Even with his waning stores of lyrium, even wounded, even fighting one-handed, Ferdinand can still take them. He has to. He knows he can.

He digs his boots into the ground and kicks up dirt, though not high enough for distraction. Still, a few quick paces later he’s right in front of one of the bandit’s faces. Their armor is makeshift and pierceable.

Ferdinand slashes horizontally across the bandit’s belly, and when that makes the man double over, he plunges his sword in and out of his chest. As he does, he hears the vengeful roars of two other bandits rushing him. Ferdinand ducks, then swings his sword upwards across their wrists, slamming down on them to make them release their weapons. Once disarmed, offing them is standard work—or it normally would be, and even though he accomplishes his goal he stumbles, groaning as the pain wracks through him with every movement, even when he’s not using that arm.

That leaves two. Axes come at him from opposite sides, boxing him in, but Ferdinand knows this tactic. Willing his breathing to steady and force down the angry thrum in his shoulder, he waits it out as they draw closer, closer, closer—

He howls in anguish as he throws himself aside, sprawling into the dirt. The bandits nearly collide with one another but turn at the very last second to both dive for Ferdinand instead, and he doesn’t have the time or strength to get back up.

As an axe descends on him, he flails and kicks, knocking a bandit in the shin and sweeping his legs out from under him. Ferdinand scrambles out of the way, bringing his sword over his face in an arcing motion, managing to counter another axe.

With a feral cry, Ferdinand pulls his torso upright and thrusts his blade through one of the bandits’ guts. His shoulder blazes now, but he cannot stop here. He lurches to his knees and then pushes to his feet just in time to deal a finishing blow to the remaining bandit.

When he’s done, one of them still twitches and struggles to get back up. Ferdinand grants him mercy.

And then he collapses to his knees next to the fallen bandit, retching and heaving and clutching his shoulder and cringing as the wet bloody sensation covers his hand.

He’ll have to wrap it with something to stem the bleeding. He should seek medical attention, but he doesn’t know where the next closest village is anymore. He’s five days out of Wildervale, but even with his map-reading abilities, he’s been losing track of time and distance more and more. The lack of lyrium has addled his brain, made it difficult to focus. Would it be quicker to head back or to march onwards?

“Hey!” a voice shouts from within the trees. “There’s something here!”

And then a group of mages bursts from the woods.

They have to be apostates, for what else would explain how half of them wear simple traveling garb while the other half wear travel-worn mages’ robes—old Circle uniforms—and all of them carry wooden staffs?

“One’s still alive!” one of them says.

Ferdinand nods, pushing himself to his feet even as his head swims and he sways. “Peace,” he slurs. “I mean no harm. You are mages, are you not? I was injured in dispatching some bandits. If one of your number could spare some healing—”

One of the mages steps forward, but another holds an arm out to halt the advance. He’s young, with mousey features and messy hair, and he barks, “That’s a Templar’s sword!”

Ah. Someone finally noticed after all. Ferdinand has not the heart to be disappointed.

The young man shouts, “He’s a Templar! Let’s kill him while he’s down!”

“That’s enough filth from your mouth for one day, Wynan,” a familiar voice rings out. Another of their number appears, clothed in black, dark bangs obscuring one half of his face—

“Hubert!” gasps Ferdinand.

Hubert’s eyes widen slightly in recognition.

“Hubert,” Ferdinand says again, dizzy with relief, or maybe from blood loss, and he sinks back to his knees. “You are alive. Oh, thank the Maker. I had no idea if—”

“Wait,” the one called Wynan says, eyes narrowing suspiciously as he turns to Hubert. “You know this scum?”

Hubert’s expression smooths over into his usual disdain. “This _scum_ is the reason I was able to escape Tantervale safely. He was a Knight-Lieutenant there.”

“Not anymore,” Ferdinand starts, but Hubert interjects without even sparing him a second glance.

“I coerced him into helping me, and he lives in my debt and in too much fear of my wrath to even consider taking a stand against me.” Ferdinand’s brow furrows in confusion, because that was not at all how it went, but Hubert speaks so confidently, effortlessly weaving his tale. “You won’t find many Templars so amenable as him. This is an opportunity we cannot afford to squander. Look around; he was outnumbered five-to-one and still emerged victorious. Think of how advantageous it would be to have a Templar in our midst to defend us from others of his ilk.”

Ferdinand sags further and stares woozily as Hubert’s companions consult amongst themselves. Wynan is clearly opposed, but he thinks he hears several murmurs of assent. He doesn’t know how many of them there are. Part of him wants to object to Hubert’s words, but he cannot deny how they might endear himself to them. And he really could use some healing.

On the other hand, having proof that Hubert is alive and well at last is the sweetest reprieve he could ask for.

He maybe loses time for a moment, because the next thing he knows Hubert is sharpening into his blurred vision.

“It’s decided,” Hubert informs him, his tall shadow looming over Ferdinand. “You will travel with us as a defender of sorts, in exchange for healing.”

“And there’d better be no funny business!” Wynan snaps from farther back.

Hubert grimaces. “You heard him. And no funny business.”

Ferdinand cannot help but let out a breathless laugh at that, at how perfectly Hubert that look on his face is, at knowing that some things haven’t changed.

Then Hubert lowers himself to Ferdinand’s level. “Allow me.”

Ferdinand blinks at him, his newly outstretched hand, suddenly remembering with startling vivacity the horrors Hubert can inflict with flowing blood.

And of course Hubert catches on immediately. “Oh, you poor soul,” he simpers, and it is positively menacing. He leans in close to Ferdinand’s ear, out of earshot of the others. “Afraid of what the big bad blood mage might do to you?”

All at once, the panic rises in Ferdinand once more, unease deteriorating into terror just as it had done back at Tantervale—a lifetime ago, it seems, and yet—and then Hubert snickers. “Good to see you haven’t changed. Relax, I learned how to heal. It’s practical.”

Relief floods through Ferdinand so swiftly he almost keels over. “I suppose I should have expected that you would not have changed either.”

“Quite right. Now hold still.”

Ferdinand obeys, and lets Hubert lay hands on him and assist with removing his armor. It’s not long before he’s hissing in pain, though, as they fumble together to get Ferdinand’s shirt off.

Once that’s taken care of, Hubert’s fingers flutter over the wound. His hands are cold, and Ferdinand nearly flinches away from the chilled touch. Then Hubert’s hands begin to glow, and magic emanates from his palms across the wound like a refreshing salve after burning too long in the sun.

He watches the intense concentration on Hubert’s face as he pours his magic into the wound, and bit by bit, the rest of Ferdinand’s body relaxes as well.

It’s over too soon, and Hubert pulls away, contemplative. Ferdinand makes a questioning noise, but before Hubert can answer, another mage strolls towards them.

“All right, step aside and let me handle it,” she says. She’s short and stocky, with blonde hair cropped haphazardly close to her scalp, and she speaks like someone who knows exactly what she is doing. She kneels next to Hubert. “He may have learned rudimentary healing, but he’s got a long way to go before he can consider himself proficient.”

Hubert shoots her a murderous glare, and Ferdinand stifles a giggle.

“This is a pretty deep gash,” the healer mage tells him as she reaches for Ferdinand’s shoulder with calloused hands; they glow around the wound, suffusing it with light and warmth, a stark contrast to Hubert’s powers. “Hubert stopped the bleeding, at least. I can close the wound some more and help the healing process along, but we’ll need to wrap it up well, and you’ll need to take it easy for a time to give it a chance to recover properly and not ruin anything internally.”

“I am grateful,” Ferdinand says, exhaling as her magic soothes him, dims the streaks of pain down to a dull ache.

“Oh, and my name is Amara. I should have led with that.”

“Ferdinand.” He hesitates. “Ferdinand von Aegir.”

Amara hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t react further. When she completes her mission, she takes a roll of bandages out of her travel pack and hands them to Hubert before rejoining the rest of her companions.

Leaving Ferdinand alone with Hubert.

Ferdinand smiles wanly. “So I am simply terrified of your wrath, then?”

“Aren’t you?” Hubert gives him a pointed look, and Ferdinand’s cheeks heat up.

“Well, ideally I have managed to stay in your good graces so there is no need to worry.”

Hubert huffs, crouches, and works the bandages over Ferdinand’s shoulder, across his chest and back. “We have a camp not far from here. There are others with us—we were just scouting for food, and possible threats.”

“How many?”

“A dozen.”

“That is a nice little group.”

“It suffices for now.”

Ferdinand tries not to make a face when Hubert applies pressure near the wound. “I meant it, before. I truly am grateful to see you safe and well.”

Hubert moves behind Ferdinand as he fixes the bandages, so Ferdinand can’t see his face. “Better than you, looks like.”

Ferdinand sputters, “I am a single man who just fought off five bandits on his own. You have your own little army, and a healer.”

He can practically feel Hubert’s indifferent shrug. “You’re a Templar. You can handle yourself.”

“Only half true,” Ferdinand insists. “I am a Templar no longer. I abandoned the Order when I ran.” Suddenly his throat is thick as mud, and it almost hurts to choke the words out, but they spill from him regardless. “I killed Knight-Captain Aimeric to buy you more time, but that meant—I have forsaken my duty, Hubert. I betrayed everyone. I cannot possibly go back now. And to be frank, I do not want to. Not after what…” He trails off, lifts his good arm to suppress a cough.

“Well, then,” says Hubert. “Seems to me you are sufficiently beating yourself up without the need for me to berate you further. Very well, I will only say this once: you didn’t betray everyone.”

Ferdinand cranes his neck to stare at him, wincing as the movement sends a jolt through his shoulder. Hubert tuts disapprovingly.

“You helped a dozen mages escape that day,” he says next, eerily calm. Ferdinand doesn’t know how he can be over something so momentous.

“I do not regret a second of it,” Ferdinand says, and he means it.

A grunt that sounds somewhat like approval. “So now you get to benefit from my resources as well.”

That reminds Ferdinand of something. “The others. They did not all travel here with you, did they? These faces are not familiar to me.”

Hubert finishes with the bandages and comes back around to face him, rising to his feet. “No, we parted ways soon enough. People had different opinions on what to do and where to go next, and who to travel with.” His tone reeks of distaste at that last mention, confirming some of Ferdinand’s worries. “I found this bunch instead, and for now, safety in numbers.”

“I thought you hated working with other people,” Ferdinand remarks.

Hubert shrugs. “I do. But circumstances required discretion. You’ve heard about Kirkwall and the Annulment, right?”

Ferdinand sobers instantly, guilt seeping through his bones once more. “I have.” He sighs heavily. “Hubert, you have to believe me. I had no idea this was coming.”

Hubert quirks a brow and emits a humorless chuckle. “Obviously.”

Ferdinand persists, because he hasn’t expressed this properly yet. “And it is terribly, horribly cruel and awful and no mage deserves this kind of fate. And now a rebellion has started because of all this hatred that has been growing and festering for far too long, and there is nothing we can do to stop it and—”

“ _Shut up,_ von Aegir.”

Hubert snapping at him is nothing new, yet the words make Ferdinand clam right up.

“What’s done is done, and there’s no going back,” Hubert states, plain and firm. “If you want to barge back in there and spew some so-called noble rhetoric about finding peace and harmony when no one is inclined to listen, you can meet your doom alone. And if you really do care about finding some way to help, you can start by traveling with us and making sure we’re not attacked for the simple act of being who we are.”

Ferdinand’s heart hammers in his chest. “You used my name,” he breathes, still in disbelief.

Hubert rolls his eyes so hard Ferdinand thinks they might get stuck in the back of his head. “You said yourself that you’re no longer a Knight-Lieutenant, didn’t you? And as fun as it would be to call you scum, I’m loath to take Wynan’s advice.” His tone grows impatient. “Is that really all you took away from what I just said?”

“No, no!” Ferdinand shakes himself over. “You are quite right. It would be my honor to pledge my assistance to your cause.”

“Insufferable,” Hubert mutters—and oh, how Ferdinand has missed that particular jab—but he extends his hand out to him. “You’d better be able to walk.”

“I injured my shoulder, not my legs,” Ferdinand returns, and clasps Hubert’s hand with his own and lets himself be pulled to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyyy Hubert's back in the picture! Anyone who knows me knows that, like Ferdie, I've been suffering without him. 
> 
> In other news, I'm most likely adjusting my posting schedule, so I might drop the next chapter in one week instead of two!
> 
> [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


	13. Act 2 Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shifted my entire posting schedule by a week, so, new chapter one week early! Provided there are no further extenuating circumstances, I'll be continuing with posting a new chapter every two weeks from here.
> 
> [Map of Thedas](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/77/1d/1a/771d1a48b433dd595d6b23bdc47182a1.jpg)

Ferdinand discovers several things in short order: one, this party of mages is traveling south east, towards the Vimmarks; two, many of them had fled from Kirkwall after the annulment; and three, most of them do not actually trust him.

Hubert is designated as Ferdinand’s retainer of sorts, to ensure Ferdinand does not try any _funny business_. It does not mean much when the group is all together, but they take watch at night in pairs, and so the two are placed together.

Not that Ferdinand minds. He is elated to see Hubert alive and well like this, and for the opportunity to catch up on all that’s transpired since they were separated.

“Have you encountered many bandits in your travels?”

Hubert shrugs from across the campfire. Everyone else is situated a brief distance away in makeshift tents and bedrolls, out of earshot.

“Some, from which we stole camping supplies, so that worked well enough in our favor,” he says. Something in his expression darkens. “The problem is when we find Templars.”

Ferdinand’s shoulders fall and his stomach twists. “Have you lost anyone to them?”

“No one I particularly cared about,” Hubert says, but the look in his eyes belies his level tone. Ferdinand knows they agree here: mages do not deserve this fate.

There’s nothing he can say to that, though, so he tries a slightly different angle. “Has it been difficult, fighting them?”

“We make sure we’re never all grouped up together,” Hubert explains. “That way, if some get hit with a Smite, the others can still back them up.”

Ferdinand nods. “Good.” He almost feels a little stupid for saying it, like it means nothing coming from him. “Well, I am happy to help you should you cross any others on your journeys.”

“You cut your hair.”

Ferdinand blinks. “Pardon me?”

“Your hair,” Hubert repeats. “You cut it, didn’t you?”

“Oh.” Ferdinand straightens, runs a hand across his scalp and to the cropped edges. They’re growing back, just about to reach his shoulders again, but it’s a far cry from his meticulously maintained locks that spilled in waves nearly halfway down his back. He chuckles in spite of himself—what a vain thing to think about in a time like this. “I did, when I first ran. I was hoping it would help me evade possible recognition.”

“It’s uneven,” Hubert remarks.

“I am quite aware,” Ferdinand sighs. “I have no skill as a barber, and it was a fast and rough job. I am trying not to think about it so much. It’s not as if it matters anymore.”

Hubert barks out a laugh then—an actual laugh, nothing like his habitual sneer. “Well, well. Some things have changed after all.”

Ferdinand smiles uneasily. “Hard not to, after all that’s happened.” It nags at him, then, from somewhere deep down, from the cages he’d carefully locked. Now, they threaten to burst through with the strength of an earthquake, and he tremors with it. “Do they know about you?”

“No, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep it that way.”

He raises his hands in surrender immediately, cringing as it sends a flash of pain through his shoulder. “Peace, Hubert. I have no intention of speaking of it.” He considers for a moment. “Is that why you left the others?”

Hubert shrugs indifferently, but Ferdinand can see the glint of something rueful in his eyes, something bitter. “It’s better this way. Self-preservation is key. Right now, keeping that part of me hidden is the best avenue to achieving that.”

“That makes sense.” Ferdinand chews on his lip. Wonders if Hubert can hear how loud his heart pounds. He lowers his voice even more, just in case. “All magic is blood magic, then?”

Hubert’s features instantly sober. “Do you believe it?” His tone is cautious, wary.

It’s a test, Ferdinand knows. And the only way to pass is with open honesty.

“I think so.” It comes out as a warble, airy with awe, and something akin to relief washes over him with such force he has to focus not to keel over. “Maker preserve me, I really think I do.”

“There is more evidence out there,” Hubert says softly, “if you know where to look. The Chantry would suppress it all in order to propagate their agenda and keep control.”

There is no reason to suspect Hubert is attempting to mislead him now. And besides, given what he’s learning firsthand about lyrium addiction and withdrawal—of course the Chantry would conceal everything they could about it.

He glances up at a sky he can barely see through all the trees. “I think I would like to look, someday. Thedas deserves transparency in all things.”

“A lofty goal,” Hubert says, and there’s the judgment back in his voice. It lacks its usual bite, though. It’s simply there. Assessing and analyzing.

“What else would you have me do?” Ferdinand asks.

Hubert says, “I don’t know,” and it’s the most uncertain admission Ferdinand’s ever heard from him.

He brushes some dirt off his pants, even though most of the stains have sunk into the fabric now. He’s unsure he wants to continue with this discussion. “Well. In any case, we are a long ways away from that possibility.” He pushes to his feet, wincing when he accidentally presses too hard with his injured shoulder. “We should wake the next watch and get some sleep.”

Hubert mumbles his assent and walks him back to the sleeping area.

~o~

It takes about two weeks for his shoulder to heal. Every day when they stop to make camp for the evening, Hubert funnels additional healing to it under Amara’s supervision. The sensation of Hubert’s magic pulsing through him is always cold, and Ferdinand fails at repressing his shivers.

“Come now,” Hubert says on one such occasion, openly mocking from where he kneels over Ferdinand’s seated form. “Is the former Templar so scared of having magic used on him?”

“There is nothing wrong with healing magic,” Ferdinand huffs haughtily, unwilling to provide even more fodder for his taunts with the embarrassing reality. “Mages would bestow healing upon us as necessary in the Circle, you know.”

“Yes, yes, in a controlled environment where someone on standby would Smite the mage the instant they showed any sign of doing anything else.”

“As if _you_ would enjoy being blasted with someone else’s destructive magic!” Ferdinand retorts. “If you were to sit here and use—” He breaks off abruptly, keenly aware of the _blood magic_ on the tip of his tongue.

There is a jolt to his shoulder, not painful, but not pleasant either, and Hubert lurches to his feet, his expression shuttering. “That’s enough for today,” he says with a tone of finality. Then he stalks away.

Amara is swift to take his place. “He sure has his touchy subjects,” she remarks as she pours a small amount of warm healing into him. “Obviously none of us would want to be the recipients of our own powers.”

“That is reassuring to hear.”

Apart from that one incident, Ferdinand keeps his mouth shut, and their companions seem none the wiser regarding Hubert’s hidden talent. They spend their days trekking through the woods, spread out in case of ambush, and whenever it’s time to eat, half the group hunts while the other half sets up camp. Ferdinand becomes a vital member of the hunting party, given his affinity for it. Even injured as he is, his skills still outclass the others’.

Most of these mages have not been apostates for long. Ferdinand strives to facilitate these newer experiences for them as best he can.

He’s extra vigilant on the days he’s due to take a meager dose of his lyrium stores. It’s always in private, at the same time as he goes off to relieve himself, so that his back is turned and his fumbling with the pouch at his waist would appear to prying eyes as unbuttoning his trousers.

Despite being on his final vial, despite his depleted powers, his strength is widely acknowledged among the group. It is done so begrudgingly at times, such as with Wynan and many of the others, but Ferdinand does not mind. It is nice to know he is useful to them in some way. He’s not privy to their group votes on what to do next, or where to go, though they will sometimes allow him to opine for everyone else’s benefit.

Other times, they will even accept his requests to join them after supper for some dice games. They’d found a set in a bandit’s pouch a few weeks back, or so the story went, and it has been a staple in their evening routine ever since.

Hubert never participates, though. Neither does Wynan, nor some of the others who are particularly hostile to Ferdinand, so he supposes it’s for the better. Like this, Ferdinand finds he can relax, and when the others ease up around him during their games, unafraid to joke and tease, he almost feels like one of them.

On the sixteenth day since Ferdinand sustained the wound, Hubert’s healing leaves but a tiny scar behind. With mobility restored and no instances of pain or discomfort, Amara pronounces him fully healed.

“Thank you, Hubert,” Ferdinand gushes as he admires the thin line of just barely blemished skin. “This is incredible work.”

“It sufficed,” Hubert says gruffly, his eyes flicking elsewhere.

“You improved quite a bit,” Amara offers.

“Yes,” Ferdinand agrees. “I am glad I could provide you with an opportunity to practice your craft.”

Hubert smirks, and oh, there he is. “Perhaps you should allow yourself to get gashed again in our next skirmish, so that I might practice some more.”

“Absolutely not if I can help it.”

Later, Ferdinand will swear Hubert must have been graced with a divine oracle. He does not suffer an injury, thank the Maker, but they do waltz right into a Templar campsite.

There’s only two when Ferdinand, Hubert, Wynan, and a few others scout it out, though based on the number of bedrolls there are two others elsewhere—hopefully off in the opposite direction, searching for a dinner source.

Ferdinand charges into the camp alone to divert attention from the mages, who can then act as his cover. Based on the insignias on their armor, these two are only Knight-Corporals, so it is no trouble taking them both on at once.

As expected from the ruckus, the Templars’ associates return in a hurry, but Hubert is ready for them. Improvised staff swinging through the air, he casts an Affliction Hex on them as they emerge from within the trees, and Wynan is quick to follow with a Spirit Bolt.

With Ferdinand keeping his two charges close to him, the newcomers are at a disadvantage with the mages sniping from afar. They’re felled before they have a chance to get within Smiting range, just as Ferdinand is finishing with his own foes.

Just before he lands the final blow, another Spirit Bolt hits the Templar, whizzing dangerously past Ferdinand’s ear. He flinches, but ultimately the spell strikes true, and it gives him the opening he needs to seal the deal.

Once he’s wrenched his sword out of the Templar’s corpse and turns back to the group, he sees Hubert snapping angrily at Wynan, who is snarling right back, though he cannot make out the words.

Ferdinand doesn’t need keen ears or the ability to read lips to know what’s just transpired. He sighs, puts on a cheerful demeanor, and trudges back to them. Wynan harrumphs and spins away, and Hubert does not take his eyes off him the entire trip back to the rest of the party.

Along the way, Ferdinand opens his mouth to say something to Wynan, but Hubert thwacks his arm with his staff.

“That was wholly unnecessary,” Ferdinand gripes.

“Don’t bother.”

He knows when to pick his battles. “If you say so.”

If Ferdinand didn’t know any better, he’d say this marks a juncture in the group’s travels. Tensions mount during their evening meetings, and not just between Wynan and Hubert. They’re approaching the base of the Vimmarks, the impossibly distant mountain pass somehow drawing nearer each day, and where to go next seems to be a massive point of contention.

There’s a village in the valley, so two of their members disguise themselves and venture in to get information, and return with the proposal to move east, towards Ostwick.

It’s a heavily debated topic, given that Kirkwall is directly along the way and that would bring many of them back where they started. Rumor in town is that with everything in shambles, mages are able to traverse without issue. It sits awfully in Ferdinand’s gut, but he dares not speak up here, especially when even Hubert is quiet.

Somehow, a consensus is reached by majority vote. The verdict is to head east.

Ferdinand tosses and turns in his bedroll as he waits for it to be time for his watch. From all he’s heard, Kirkwall’s plights were much worse than Tantervale’s. There is no telling what might happen if they continue this way, how many more Templars they might face, how much harder it will be to defend against, how many mages will get hurt or even killed in the process…

These thoughts plague him even as Hubert nudges him to take guard. They sit across from each other, but Ferdinand stares at his feet, tracing shapes in the dirt with a flimsy branch that had not been thrown in with the rest of the firewood.

It’s a terrible plan. But they’ve decided, and Ferdinand pledged himself to their cause. He must make amends.

“Von Aegir.” Hubert’s voice is distant, floating on the breeze.

“Hm?”

“I’m not going with them.”

Ferdinand shakes out of his reverie from the mesmerizing flames back to Hubert. The fire flickers in his eyes, highlights his features in a way that almost makes them look sunken.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Their plan,” Hubert says. “I don’t like it. I don’t trust it. We have no way of knowing if it’s safe for mages. It’s a trap, and they’re content to walk right into it.”

Ferdinand exhales. “I thought the same, to be honest.” He purses his lips as he contemplates. “Where would you go instead?”

Hubert closes his eyes for a moment. Ferdinand watches the shadows dance across his face, listens to the crackling of the fire.

“West,” he answers finally. “Along the Vimmarks seems a reasonable option. Maybe hit up the coast, take a boat to Ferelden.”

Ferdinand nods. “Then I will go with you,” he declares.

Hubert’s eyes snap back open and stare.

Ferdinand flounders. “That is to say, if you would be amenable to that,” he stammers. “If you wish me gone, I will not force myself upon you.”

The dark chuckle he receives is a relief. “I don’t hate traveling with you,” Hubert says. “I suppose I would be amenable to continuing our arrangement.”

Ferdinand breaks out into a grin. “Excellent. Then it is settled. We have a plan.”

Hubert looks up at the clouded night’s sky. “That we do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You just KNOW _I don't hate traveling with you_ is Hubert's version of a valentine. I hope you enjoyed this not-actually-for-Valentine's-Day update!
> 
> [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


	14. Act 2 Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weekend update! If you ever saw the preview snippet I used for the 3H AU Bang, guess what, it's finally here, five chapters into the act. Oops?
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: This one goes a little into Hubert's backstory, so we've got some Hubert-typical mentions of child abuse and patricide.
> 
> [Map of Thedas](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/77/1d/1a/771d1a48b433dd595d6b23bdc47182a1.jpg)

The first day traveling without the band of apostates is, to put it bluntly, strange. They part ways in the morning, and Amara is the only one to give both Ferdinand and Hubert a heartfelt goodbye. She clasps a begrudgingly acquiescent Hubert’s hand and waves to Ferdinand, wishing him the best while he stands a few paces away.

Ferdinand laments that he cannot show his appreciation more, but Wynan is shooting him death glares, and most of the others are averting their gazes, eyes darting nervously back and forth as if they expect this is when the mask will fall and they will properly clash at last. All he can do to show his gratitude for Amara’s kindness is to hover and smile, thank her and return the goodwill.

Then the group commences their march into the trees, and Ferdinand’s left alone with Hubert.

They stay there for a few minutes, watching quietly until the backs of their former companions are no more than specks in the distance.

Ferdinand breaks the silence with a nervous chuckle. “Well, it is just the two of us now.”

“Yes.”

The atmosphere is so heavy around them. Ferdinand has half a mind to joke that at least they won’t need to worry about Wynan murdering Ferdinand in his sleep anymore, but he quickly snuffs that thought out. It’s not funny, and it’s not like Ferdinand can blame him. He has every reason to distrust a Templar—ex-Templar, Ferdinand assures himself, but he knows none of them see it that way. He wonders if anyone will.

A ripple of exhaustion hits him suddenly, coupled with the slightest shiver of pain, and he almost reaches for the pouch at his belt before remembering that he only has one dose left, and it is far too early to take it. He sighs. Rightly judgmental mages are the least of his concerns at this point.

He blinks when he realizes Hubert is frowning at him, and he shakes himself over. “I guess we should be on our way,” he says.

Hubert says nothing, but they move out all the same.

It’s not long before Ferdinand reminds himself that Hubert does not particularly care for engaging in conversation. When they’d been with the group, there was enough chatter to fill the air and pass the time regardless of Ferdinand’s involvement. Now, with Hubert unreceptive to banter as he is, it falls solely on Ferdinand to find something to tear his concentration away from the dread sinking slowly into his bones.

So he talks.

He regales Hubert with stories of the farmlands he grew up on, the horses he used to train and take for morning and afternoon rides, the townsfolk who taught him so much about agriculture outside of his mandated lessons. Hubert rarely does more than listen, but he does provide the occasional grunts of acknowledgement that are enough to keep Ferdinand on track. Even more valued are the times when he’ll scoff at a silly story, or an instance of Ferdinand making a fool of himself. It confirms that perhaps Hubert is taking at least a modicum of enjoyment from this, and it’s enough for Ferdinand to go on.

On the fourth day since they left the group, they arrive at the foothills of the Vimmark Mountains. The woods are thicker here, dense with vines and bushes and all sorts of obstructions across their path, and it gives the air an odd, subdued aura. Ferdinand’s throat is dry no matter how much water he drinks from the nearby streams, and he’s run out of witty stories. He’s almost thankful for the obstacles, because it means he has to actively work while they trek now, and that keeps his mind occupied for a time. He leads, walking with his sword out, cutting ropes of vines and branches that hang low from the trees and block their path.

Until the movements become mechanical, and his mind wanders.

“Say, Hubert,” Ferdinand starts.

“Yes, von Aegir?”

Ferdinand makes a face, knowing full well that Hubert currently only has a view of his back. “I have been thinking.”

“What an unexpected surprise.”

“Yes, yes, it is truly a momentous occasion. I am being serious, Hubert. The days are long, and we are spending so many of our waking hours together—”

“How astute of you to observe.”

“—and I have realized that while I have told you much of my life story, I know almost nothing of you.”

There is a momentary hush, broken only by the slashing sounds of his sword against nature and their footfalls over the rocks and roots.

“You don’t want to know about me,” says Hubert.

Ferdinand frowns. “I’m quite certain I can decide that for myself.”

“The less you know, the better you’ll feel.”

“I beg to differ,” Ferdinand retorts. “After all, I already know about what you did to your father—”

A twig snaps abruptly behind him and Hubert’s footsteps cease, and it is only then that Ferdinand processes what he’s just let slip. He whirls around to Hubert’s shocked expression staring back at him, and once he does, it morphs into anger instead.

“What,” Hubert says, low and dangerous, “the _fuck_ do you know.” It’s not a question; it’s a demand. Miasma sparks at his fingertips, and Ferdinand doesn’t think it’s intentional.

He digs his sword into the dirt so he can raise both palms in surrender. “Not much, I swear,” he insists. When Hubert glowers at him, Ferdinand scrambles to select words that won’t incriminate anyone. “I heard a rumor back at Tantervale. Only the one. That your magic manifested out of control, and—” He breaks off and looks away, cheeks heated under the weight of Hubert’s glare.

Then Hubert barks out a laugh, and Ferdinand flinches. “Oh, is that it?” Ferdinand gapes, and finds the tension gone from Hubert’s posture as he throws back his head. “What a nonsensical farce. I wonder who came up with that particular fabrication.”

Ferdinand sighs and grips his sword once more. “As I said, it was a rumor. Perhaps you could indulge me with the true tale while we walk. I sincerely doubt it will legitimately surprise me.” Without waiting for Hubert’s response, he turns back to resume clearing their path.

A few minutes pass with no answer, but Hubert’s boots crunch twigs behind him, so Ferdinand figures it’s a fair compromise. He ponders what other stories of his past he can tell Hubert instead. Ansburg Circle is off limits, obviously. But any lighthearted memories of his childhood have already been shared.

“My father was not a good man, you know,” Ferdinand blurts. Taking Hubert’s lack of reply as permission, he elaborates. “He was the Duke of Ansburg, but I became a Templar against his wishes, before you assume anything. I did not like how he managed his estate. He was rather terrible to his citizens, you know? He never took the time to get to know them, or the intricacies of agricultural development. Meanwhile, I loved spending my days amongst the people, learning their ways, helping in any way I could. My father did not like that. And he would not listen whenever I would try to reason with him on the matter. I did not expect to succeed him anytime soon, especially since he always made sure I knew I was a disgrace, so instead I joined the Order. I figured I could garner more influence and help people that way. But Ansburg had no room to grow within their ranks, and it proved too close to home, to be quite honest. So when there was an opening with potential for promotion at Tantervale, I jumped at the chance. I thought surely this would finally be my opportunity to make my father proud with my accomplishments. And now I’ve failed at that too. I suppose I will never be enough. And I cannot go back yet, not like this. There is nothing I can do for Ansburg as I am, and my father’s health is still strong. Well,” he amends, “I confess I do not actually know much of the situation there given—” he gestures wildly with one hand “—but still. I want to return one day, but only once I am confident that I have accomplished some good in the world.”

He glances over his shoulder at Hubert, whose face is impassive. “There you have it,” he finishes, somewhat lamely, as he returns his focus to what lies ahead.

“And how,” Hubert says, startling Ferdinand, “do you reconcile _accomplishing some good in the world_ with traveling alongside a blood mage, hm?”

Ferdinand shoots him a wan smile. “You are still a mage, are you not? Am I not helping you in locating somewhere for you to live freely?”

Hubert snorts. “I am one solitary person. You had nearly a dozen mages you could’ve done that for instead.”

“True.” Ferdinand bites his lip, tries to narrow his reasoning down to one simple fact, as if his decision was not so expansive as it actually was. “I think you deserve it more, is all.”

“My magic did not manifest so violently, you know,” Hubert spits out. “No, I hid it from my father for years. He thought lashings were an appropriate way to raise a child. I suppose I should thank him for that,” he adds, almost an afterthought. “Leaving open wounds allowed me to learn how to harness the power in my blood. To eventually grow strong enough to kill him.”

Ferdinand swallows past the lump in his throat and sheathes his sword as they enter a clearing in the woods. His heart is pounding frantically even as his stomach swoops, and the beginnings of a headache creep in beneath his eyelids. He doesn’t know what to do with this newfound information, that it was not an accident all this time. But there is also no denying that what Hubert’s father had done to him was unspeakably cruel.

He does not know if he can consider Hubert’s actions justified. And yet, his heart burns for him all the same.

“How did you end up in the Circle after that?” Ferdinand asks. It seems safest.

Hubert’s chuckle is self-deprecating. “There were Templars passing by. I didn’t know. They felt the force of my magic being used and captured me.” He grumbles, “Blasted Smites.”

Ferdinand winces as the words sink in. “How long ago?”

“I had just reached adulthood.” The bitterness drips from him. “It was supposed to be my birthday present to myself.”

A stone plummets in Ferdinand’s gut. Hubert had liberated himself from one terrible situation only to be forcibly placed into another. For most of his life, Ferdinand would have pegged that as a blessing, to be brought into a Circle under those circumstances. But he realizes, now, that Circle life took more of a toll on Hubert than his childhood ever did.

Ferdinand inhales. “Well then. Even more reason for me to be traveling with you.”

Hubert eyes him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “And what reason would that be?”

“Most mages at least have some form of childhood freedom before their magic presents and they are brought into a Circle,” Ferdinand explains. “This is the first time you are truly unchained, is it not? I think that is worth protecting.”

“That sounds like a load of backwards logic to me, but I suppose I can accept the sentiment, given the circumstances.”

“How magnanimous of you.”

Hubert whistles with approval. “Sarcasm. You’re finally learning, von Aegir.”

“Oh, come off it.”

“Bet you’re regretting your choices now, aren’t you? Poor thing, committed to a cause only to find out it’s not at all what he imagined it would be.”

“That is _not_ what is happening here.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“ _Yes_!”

But they continue trekking together, and Ferdinand feels little bubbles of giddiness rising and bursting in his chest—feels lighter, somehow, like a load has been lifted off his shoulders. He finally knows, now. And the knowing is painful in its own right, given the context, but. It doesn’t quite hurt for the reasons he expects.

Chilled fingers fiddle with the pouch at his hip before he consciously clues in to what he’s doing, and he freezes when he realizes, _again_. He could take the lyrium now, allay the headache maybe, but then he would hate himself later. He can hold out a while yet.

~o~

The days grow longer after Ferdinand takes his last dose, which makes no sense in the month of Harvestmere. It’s barely enough to give him his usual exuberant energy for one day, and from there on out it wears on him. Now, it just feels like he’s dragging his feet and out of breath every time they stop to rest, even though he is ostensibly in much better shape than Hubert, who has never trained his body a day in his life before he ended up on the run.

Still, Ferdinand grinds through the motions as if wading through mud in the air and a fog in his mind, and he gets to work on cooking them supper over the fire that Hubert easily brings to life with magic. They don’t talk much; Hubert isn’t talkative on the best of days, and Ferdinand’s throat has been too dry to maintain his standard.

Tonight, like every other night before it, his hands shift instinctively to his belt pocket, but it’s empty, of course it’s empty. The symptoms have been coming on faster and faster with each pathetic shrunken dose, and now there will be no alleviating any of it. The pain blooms once more in his mind just remembering how bad it was getting before he succumbed to another mouthful, unable to drag it out any further.

This time, he’d taken his final dose just before those telltale warning signs appeared. He thinks now it may have been a mistake. He’s not sure. He’s a little woozy, even after eating. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. All he knows is that the dull ache settling across his entire body is transforming into something sharp and bright.

He suppresses a tremor, and his stomach gives an uncomfortable lurch. He thinks he knows what’s coming. Of course it’s coming, now that he’s been thinking about it, and now Hubert will know that he’s too weak to do anything about it, and he will deem Ferdinand unfit to stay with him and leave him behind to rot—

A whistling sigh startles him, and he glances over to Hubert, the direction of its source, and.

Hubert is staring up at the sky, his mouth hanging open by just a fraction, a look in his eyes that Ferdinand has never seen before.

His body gives a brief, involuntary shudder, but he follows Hubert’s gaze to where the clouds have swept aside to reveal a canvas of dazzling lights.

Ferdinand recalls, then, Tantervale’s layout: no windows in the mages’ quarters, none even in the library or dining hall. None in the areas that mages would normally gather in.

No opportunities to see the stars.

Ferdinand holds his breath as he turns back to Hubert, who watches the stars with an expression akin to wonder. He’s only ever seen that look on Hubert’s face one other time—when Ferdinand had refused to wield the brand on him. It’s…a good look on him, Ferdinand decides. His shoulders are slack, the creases in his brow smoothed out, and he’s just. Alive, and free, and able to experience the world, maybe see it in a different light. Ferdinand wants that for him. He wants to see more of this. Wants to capture it and bottle it up and coax it out himself.

No. That is selfish. But maybe he can be a part of this in another way.

“Have you ever charted star maps at the Circle?” he asks, quiet, not wanting to ruin the moment. Hubert hums an affirmative. Ferdinand tentatively inches closer until he’s directly next to him. He points at one of the unmistakable patterns he’s seen countless times in his own studies. “Do you see Peraquialus, here? The ship, with the sail?”

He observes as Hubert squints, noting the exact instant the recognition sets in. It sends a pleasant tingling all the way down Ferdinand’s spine, a small flutter in his chest.

Without pointing this time, he says, “There are more out tonight as well. Servani, Fenrir, and Tenebrium.”

Hubert’s eyes dart back and forth as he searches, and when they lock into place, Ferdinand knows he’s found them. Ferdinand shuffles away again, gives Hubert his space as he witnesses the constellations dancing across the sky for what is very likely the first time in many, many years—maybe ever.

Ferdinand’s fingers itch and tremble, and he knows his world will open into one of torment very soon. But Hubert’s world has opened to vast possibilities, and there’s warmth bleeding through Ferdinand’s limbs and it’s so light and nice, such a relief from all of the heaviness and pain. He lets himself relax. Lets himself bask in it for just a while longer.

Watching Hubert gaze at the stars, the rest of the world falls away, and Ferdinand thinks that maybe he can withstand the pain after all, that moments like these will make it all worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I read through the descriptions of every single constellation in universe on the Dragon Age wiki and chose these ones for a reason, I am absolutely That Nerd.
> 
> [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


End file.
